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T  11  E 

^"ATIV:^    POETS 

-OF- 

BY  S.   HERBERT  LANOEY. 

Have  we  no  Minstrels  in  our  echoing  halls? 

We  have  sounds  stealiiijr  from  the  far  retreats 
Of  the  bright  company  of  gifted  men, 
Who  pour  their  mellow  music  round  our  age, 
And  point  us  to  our  duties  and  our  hearts. 

Geektille  Mellen. 

BANGOR: 

DAVID    BUGBEE    &    CO. 

1854. 

Entered  accorfiftij;  i(jt Act' pt  f,'0n^r<>^s,;in  the  year  1854,  by 

'  '(3.'.Ut:KBferlTLANCi3Y, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Maine. 


BAZIN   A  CHANDLER, 

PRINTERS, 

37  Cornhill,  Boston. 


BY  PEKMISSIOX, 


%\t  "B^Wk  ^orfs  of  Pak/ 


IS    DEDICATED 


TO 


HENRY  ¥/ADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


MOST    GIFTED    OF    AMERICAN    POETS, 


AND 


A     DISTINGUISHED 


SON  OF  MAINE. 


Ml075Go 


OUR  VOLUME, 


'  'TiS  like  the  books  that  silently  among 

Our  household  treasures  take  familiar  places, 
And  are  to  us  as  if  a  living  tongue 

Spoke  from  the  printed  leaves  and  pictured  faces. 

'  Therefore  we  hope,  as  no  unwelcome  guest, 

At  your  warm  fireside  when  the  lamps  are  lighted, 
Twill  have  its  place  reserved  among  the  rest. 
Nor  stand  as  one  unsought  and  uninvited.' 


P  E  0  E  M  . 

BY  WILLLiM  BELCHER   GLAZIER. 

Harp  of  the  darl?  Pine  forest-land  ! 

Harp,  that  the  Poets'  birth-place  owns ! 
How  bold  becomes  the  timorous  hand. 

When  once  it  wakes  thy  tones. 

Here,  where  the  broadest  rivers  sweep. 

Here,  where  the  dimmest  woods  are  found. 

Our  fondest  memories  start  from  sleep. 
Aroused  by  thy  dear  sound. 

Come,  let  me  strike  thy  chords  once  more. 
And,  while  my  fingers  o'er  them  roam. 

Return  the  strain  beloved  of  yore. 
And  murmur.  Harp,  of  Home. 

Yes,  this  is  Home  !  its  tasseled  pines, 
Its  rugged  hills,  its  short-lived  flowers. 

Its  fields  where  Winter  late  reclines. 
Are  cheerless,  but  are  ours. 


Vin.  PROEM. 


Hearts  have  beat,  warmly  here  as  where 
The  Summer  lingers  late  and  long, 

And  here  have  brows  found  strength  to  bear 
The  laurel  wreath  of  Song. 

The  strains  that  fill  with  Hope  the  heart. 
The  lays  that  cheer  us  in  the  strife. 

The  songs  that  make  young  Love  a  part. 
The  dearest  part  of  Life ; 

The  fancies  that  the  Poets  find 

In  buds,  in  streams,  in  forests  sere. 

In  spells  that  master  every  mind, 
Have  all  been  uttered  here. 

And  thou  who  readest,  if  a  strain 
Brings  joy  or  makes  one  care  to  flee. 

Let  it,  too,  bear  the  low  refrain, 
*  Tliis  song  was  sung  for  thee.' 


TO  THE  TtEADER. 


Ix  presenting  this  volume  to  the  people  of  our  State,  we  have  a 
few  words  to  offer  as  an  apology  for  its  many  deficiencies.  AYe  in- 
tended to  make  it  a  standard  work,  to  be  put  forth  as  a  specunen  of 
the  talent  of  the  '  Native  Poets  of  ISIaine,'  and  to  include  only  such 
as  were  justly  entitled  to  a  place  among  om-  most  distinguished  poets. 
To  this  end  we  labored,  and  spent  much  time  and  means  in  procuring 
the  information  desu-able  for  such  a  work.  Our  success  was,  in  many 
respects,  far  better  than  we  had  anticipated,  although  from  several  of 
our  most  prominent  poets  we  could  get  no  reply.  After  the  first 
sheets  were  m  the  hands  of  the  Printer,  we  entu-ely  altered  the  style 
and  character  of  the  work,  as  we  were  disappointed  m  not  recei\'mg 
some  very  important  contributions,  and  concluded  to  make  it  a  '  Hol- 
iday Gift  Book,'  containmg  selections  from  all  of  our  native  writers, 
good,  bad,  and  mdifferent. 

Owing  to  this  sudden  change,  Ave  were  obliged  to  collect  the 
contributions  as  fast  as  the  printer  needed  them,  thereby  causing  us 
to  use  great  haste  in  preparing  our  sketches,  wliich  -nill  account  for 
then-  faultmess.  Consequently  we  cannot  present  this  work  in  the 
manner  in  which  it  should  be  presented,  and  therefore  do  not  -wish 
the  reader  to  accept  it  as  a  true  specimen  of  Maine  talent.  Several 
distinguished  writers  would  have  been  represented  here,  had  not  cir- 


VI.  TO    THE    HEADER. 


cumstanccs,  over  \\  hich  wo  hud  no  control,  rendered  it  utterly  impos- 
f-iblc.  Among  others,  arc  Mrs.  Harriet  Winslow  List;  Rev.  Dr. 
Chccver ;  the  late  George  W.  Lamb ;  and  the  late  Dr.  Thomas  O. 
Folsom,  whose  selections  would  have  added  much  to  the  literary  merit 
of  the  work. 

The  Publishers  have  been  abimdantly  liberal  in  their  endeavors  to 
make  the  work  compare,  in  its  mechanical  execution,  with  any  similar 
one  in  the  country,  and  we  regret  to  say,  that,  owing  to  unforeseen 
difficulties,  they  have  been  greatly  disappointed  in  being  imable  to 
present  a  series  of  portraits  which  are  now  executing  for  tliis  volume. 
They  hope  to  be  able  to  do  so  in  a  work  now  in  preparation.  "We 
regret  that  there  should  be  a  single  typographical  error  in  the  work, 
but  the  hasty  manner  in  which  it  was  put  through  the  press,  in  order 
to  be  ready  for  the  Holidays,  rendered  it  almost  impossible  to  prevent 
them. 

"With  many  regrets,  we  send  it  forth,  with  our  earnest  wishes  for  its 
success,  which  will  give  us  an  opportmiity  to  present  to  the  public  a 
volume,  such  as  we  originally  designed  this  to  be,  which  we  shall  not 
feel  ashamed  of.  To  those  who  are  inclined  to  criticise  it,  we  have 
only  to  say,  it  is  a  home-book — for  home  circulation — containing  home 
talent,  and  ckiimmg  only  a  home  place  on  your  table. 

THE  EDITOR. 

Bangor,   Odoher  2d,  1854. 


INDEX. 


HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW.  Tage. 

Ship  of  State. — Introductory  Poem, 2 

Biographical  Sketch, 3 

Spanish  Stmlent.  -An  Extract, 7 

A  Psalm  of  Life, 14 

The  Village  Blacksmith, 16 

The  Beleaguered  City, 18 

Plianioms, 20 

Resignation, 22 

A  Passing  Thought. — An  Extract, 24 

Excelsior, 25 

God's  Acre, 27 

The  Rainy  Day, 28 

NATHANIEL  P.  WILLIS. 

Woman's  Love. — Introductory  Poem, 30 

Biographical  Sketch, 31 

The  Confessional, 35 

Thoughts  while  making  the  grave  of  a  new-horn  child, 39 

Filial  Love. — An  Extrurt, 41 

The  Annoyer, 42 

Parrhasius. — An  Extract, 44 

Belfrv  Pigeon, 47 

Tired  of  Play, 49 

April, 51 

BENJAMIN  B.  THATCHER. 

Twilight  Musings. — Introductory  Poem, 54 

Biographical  Sketch, .' 55 

Bird  of  the  Bastile, 59 

Weep  not  for  the  dead, 02 

I  Will  Remember  Thee, C4 

To  a  Sister — Embarking  on  a  Missionary  Enterprise, 66 

ELIJAH  P.  LOVEJOY. 

To  my  Mother. — Introductory  Poem, 68 

Biographical  Sketch, 69 

Inspiration  of  the  Muse, 73 

The  Farewell, 77 

The  Little  Star.— ^m  Extract 79 

The  Wanderer, 80 


INDEX. 


ELIZABETH  O.  SMITH.  Page. 

The  Am:\rAuth. —Introdtwtnry  Poem, 81 

Bio.Lriapliii-il  Slcctcli, 85 

'J'lie  Acorn, 87 

Tlie  Drowned  Mariner, 97 

Progression, 100 

Gr.ENVILLE  MELLEX. 

Mount  Wiisliin^ton. — Introductory  Foem, 102 

liioii laiiliical   Siieteh, 103 

Mount  Vernon, 105 

Tiie  Trnc  Gloiy  of  America, 110 

The  Ihi-Ie, 113 

ISAAC  McLELLAN. 

An  Evening  Scene. — Inti-oductory  Poem, IIU 

biographical  Slceteh, 117 

Tlie  Notes  of  tlie  Birds, 119 

Tlie  Fields  of  War, , 122 

Autumn, 124 

Mew  England's  l>ead, 126 

Tlie  Deatii  of  Napoleon, 128 

June, 130 

JOHN  NEAL. 

Shakspeare's  Tomb. — Introductory  Poe7n, 132 

Biographical  Sketch, 133 

The  Battle  of  Niagara.— ^m  Extract, 135 

Ambition, 138 

Birth  of  a  Poet 139 

EDMUND  ELAGG. 

Fare  Thee  Wt^W— Introductory  Poem,  142 

Biographical    SKetch, 143 

The  Close  of  the  Year, 135 

The  ]\Iagnetic  Telegraph, 150 

The  Witlicred  Flowers, 152 

Smiles  oft  Deceive  Us, 154 

SEBA  SMITH. 

Ode  to  Chesapeake  Bay. — Introductory  Poem, 158 

J  iographical  Sketch, 159 

The  Little  (iraves, 161 

Tlie  Snow  Storm, 1G4 

The  Pool  of  Bethcsda, 165 

Youth  and  Old  Age, 1G6 

FREDERIC  MELLEN. 

Troubadour's   Serenade. — Introductory  Poem, 168 

liiographical  Sketch, 169 

Song  of  the  Wintry  Wind. 171 

•    Sabbath  Evening, 174 

Venetian  Moonlight, 176 

To  the  Arno, 178 

The  Village  Church, 179 

The  Crusader's  Farewell, 181 


INDEX. 


XI. 


WILLIAM  B.  GLAZIER.  Page. 

December  Snow. — Introductory  Poem, 184 

Bio^^n-aph ical   Sketch, .'.".'.".*.'.'  18.) 

Land  l?reczcs, '.'.'.'.'.'"  ]87 

Homeless, \  _\ 189 

Fever ^l.^..l.....'.^..'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.m 

The  Rosary, .   ^q-^ 

Cape  Cottai^e 19.5 

Nearer  to  Tliee. — An  Extract, "...  1 !"..'......  19(3 

The  Launching, 197 

MISS  A.  D.  WOODBRIDGE. 

Life's  Harvest  Field.— Introduciori/  Poem,, 900 

Biographical  Sl^etch, '..'.."". '  'ooi 

Life's  Light  and  Shade, .".".".'.".'.!..'..... 203 

Myrtle  Creek, ' '. " >,0j 

To  Lillie, .[......'.'.'.'.'.'.['.'.['.['.'.'.[  !tiOG 

EDWARD  P.  WESTON. 

Tiie  Two    Hands. — Introductory  Poem, 208 

Biographical    Sketch, .209 

A  Vision  of  Immortality, 011 

Lines ^13 

The  Ocean  Buried, n? 

To  One  Absent 2.8 

MRS.  H.  MARION  STEPHENS. 

ThineTniDcath.— Introductory  Poe?n  '^ort 

Hiographical   Sketch, ';;;.'; o^i 

Seng  of  the  Improvisatrice ,, ^r^ 

My  Grave, '        Z^'i. 

To  One  Afar '.^ '.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'. '.'.['. ooq 

To  a  Songstress, ; " . .' .>i7 

Farewell, .............[..[[..[...... 358 

DANIEL  C.  COLESWORTHY, 

Tvnth.—Introductor))  Poem,, 030 

Biographical  Sketch, .'..".'.'.....'....'.'.' 231 

Your  Brother, 933 

One  Deed  of  Kindness, 031 

Don't  Kill  the  I5irds, '.'".'!.'!.'.".'!.".".'!.'.".'!.'!."!"  'aj.j 

Be  not  Discouraged, -T-^i 

Let  us  Do  Good, !...".!..!.!.'.....!.!.. ^38 

WILLIAM  G    CROSBY. 

Tvne  Fame— Infrodtictorij  Poem, 040 

Biographical  Sketch,: " ' T,  ^ 

Telling  the  Dream, '^43 

The  Last  Leaf, 240 

To  a  Lady, •>48 

DAVID  BARKER:  " 

Stanzas. — Introductory  Poem O'lO 

Hiographical  Sketch, '. ' ' 9-,3 

Try  Again !...!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"'  "204 

bolaee  for  Dark  Hours, 2,3j 


XU.  INDEX. 


WILLIAM  CUTTER.  Page. 

The  One  Talent, — IntroductoryPoem, 258 

Hioirraiiliical    Skctcli, 2.')9 

Tlie  Valley  of  Silcnee 2()0 

Who  is  mv  Nei^'hbor  ? 2(i3 

The  bridal, 2G 1 

NATHANIEL  DEERING. 

Father  Kalle's  ISoliloquv. — Introductory  Poem, 2G0 

Jlio^-rai)liieal  Sketeh, . . " • 2(17 

The   (irave, 2(i;) 

The  Harp, 271 

VAKIOUS    AUTHOKS. 

Sylvestf.u  R.  Beckett—'  O,  TM(hj,  Sing  that  Song  Again' 274 

Charles  P.  Rouekts— 77(e  Sleep  of  Nature, 275 

I5i;xj.  A.  G.  Fuller— 7''(«/M,  Hope,  Charity, 277 

'Flokenck  Pkucy, — June  Shotcer, 279 

Edwakd  ]M.  Fi i;ld — My  Sister 281 

Mklvillk  W.  ¥v>Li.KK~Rc'inorse, 283 

Miss  Fanny  P.  Laugiiton — Casttes  in  the  Fire, 28t 

G i;oi!G E  W.  S.NOW—  The  Tempcat  Driven, 285 

]\IiS8  Hannah  E.  RitAOnuiiY — The  Covei-ed  Bridge, 2S7 

Miss  Sarah  W.  Spaulding — The  Storm  and  the  Itainbow, 288 

Chaulks  p.  Ilsley — '  O  this  is  not  my  Hume.' 2'JO 

Mi*.s  Hannah  A.  Moore — The  Spirit  of  Song, 2'Jl 

Lewis  Dkla — Lcnv  is  Saw, 283 

Miss  Sarah  IIayford — 'The  Sleeping  Babe, 2'j5 

ORIGINAL    POEMS. 

Bacchanalian  Song— Melville  W.  ruUer, 298 

Pansies— Miss  F.  P.  Laii^hton, 299 

The  FoiiSAicEN  Aruor — Benj-  A-  G-  Fuller, 301 

The  Indian  At  li vy— William  Cutter, 303 

Rhymes— Edward  P.   Weston, 305 

The  fciuoKEs  of  Maine— Isuue  McLcllan, •. .  .307 


SHIP  OF  STATE. 


Tliou,  too,  sail  on,  O  Ship  of  State ! 

Sail  on,  O  Union,  strong  and  great! 

Humanity  with  all  its  fears. 

With  all  its  hopes  of  future  years, 

Is  hanging  breathless  on  thy  fate? 

We  know  what  Master  laid  thy  keel, 

What  Workmen  wrought  thy  ribs  of  steel, 

Who  made  each  mast,  and  sail,  and  rope, 

What  anvils  rang,  wliat  hammers  beat, 

In  what  a  forge  and  what  a  heat. 

Were  shaped  the  anchors  of  thy  hope! 

Fear  not  each  sudden  sound  and  shock, 

'  Tis  of  the  wave,  and   not  the  rock; 

'Tis  but  the  flapping  of  the  sail, 

And  not  a  rent  made  by  the  gale! 

In  spite  of  rock  and  tempests'  roar. 

In  spite  of  false  lights  on  the  shore, 

Sail  on,  nor  fear  to  breast  the  sea! 

Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  are  all  with  thee. 

Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  our  prayers,  our  tears, 

Our  faith  triumphant  o"er  our  fears, 

Are  all  with  thee,— are  all  with  thee! 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW, 


AGE,  47  YEAES. 


Henry  "W.  Loxgfellow  is  a  son  of  the  late  Hon.  Stephen 
Longfellow,  and  a  native  of  Portland,  in  -which  city  he  was  born  on 
the  twenty-seventh  day  of  February,  1807.  He  was  graduated  from 
Bowdoin  College,  in  the  class  of  1825,  and  being  desu-ous  of  %isiting 
the  scenes  of  beauty  and  grandeur  in  the  old  world,  he  soon  after 
made  an  extended  torn-  through  England,  France,  Spain,  Germany 
and  Italy,  which  occupied  nearly  foiu*  years.  Much  of  this  time  was 
given  to  the  study  of  the  languages,  manners  and  customs,  and  his- 
torical incidents  of  the  different  nations  that  he  visited.  For  nearly 
five  years,  after  his  retm-n,  he  occupied  the  chair  of  Professor  of  ]\Iodern 
Languages,  in  Bovrdoin  College,  at  Brunswick,  Maine,  firom  which  he 
was  a  graduate.  In  1835,  he  again  visited  Europe,  accompanied  by 
his  wife,  to  whom  he  was  manied  fom*  years  previous,  and  who  died 
very  suddenly  dming  the  ensuuig  winter,  while  they  were  sojominng 
at  Heidelberg.  He  spent  considerable  time  in  Germany,  TjtoI  and 
Sw itzerland,  and  Denmark  and  Sweden,  devotmg  liimself  to  the  study 
of  Northern  languages  and  literatm'e.  He  returned  home  during  the 
fall  of  1836,  and  received  the  appomtment  of  Professor  of  French  and 
Spanish  Languages,  in  Harvard  University,  at  Cambridge,  Mass.,  where 
he  still  resides. 

Mr.  Longfellow's  fii-st  efforts  in  Hterature,  were  made  wiiile  he 
was  a  Sophomore  in  Bowdoin  College,  as  a  contributor  to  the  "  United 
States  Literary  Gazette,"  by  which  he  acqmred  considerable  populari- 
ty among  the  reachng  community ;  he  was  also  a  contributor  to  the 
"  North  American  Re-\iew,"  wiiile  a  Professor  in  the  College.  In  1839, 
he  published  "  Hjijeiion,"  of  wliich  Dr.  Griswold,  a  very  able  critic, 
says,  "  it  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  prose  compositions  in  our  Ian- 


HENRY    W.    LONGFELLOW. 


puagc."  Subsequent  to  tliis,  he  published  "  Outre-Mcr,  a  Pilgrimage 
Beyond  the  Sea;"  in  1840,  "Voices  of  the  Night,"  his  first  volume 
of  Poems,  and  two  years  later,  "Ballads  and  Other  Poems;"  in  18-18, 
"  Evangeline,  a  Tale  of  Acadie,"  one  of  liis  most  beautiful  and  admired 
poems;  in  1849,  "Kavanagh,"  a  prose  tale;  m  1850,  "  Sea-Side  and 
Fireside,"  a  collection  of  Poems ;  in  18o2,  "The  Golden  Legend,"  a 
Poem  dramatique.  In  1853,  liis  publishers,  ]\Iessrs,  Ticknor,  Reed 
and  Fields,  of  Boston,  issued  liis  complete  poetical  Avorks  and  transla- 
tions, in  two  volumes,  not  mcluding,  however,  "  The  Golden  Legend," 
his  longest  poem,  which  was  jniblished  at  nearly  the  same  time. 

Professor  Longfellow,  by  liis  earnest  and  persevering  study  of 
the  Modern  Languages,  has  been  able  to  give  to  the  literature  of  tliis 
country,  some  of  the  most  beautiful  and  correct  translations  in  the 
EngHsh  language ;  among  which  are,  "  The  Chikben  of  the  Lord's 
Supper,"  "  Frithiof's  Saga,"  and  "  Coplas  de  Manrique,"  and  a  numer- 
ous collection  of  minor  ones.  Although  he  has  achieved  a  fame 
greater  than  any  American  Poet,  he  is  still  addhig  to  it  by  frequent 
productions  from  his  prolific  pen.  What  he  has  written,  will  remain 
before  the  public,  and  in  the  hearts  of  his  comitless  friends,  Avhen  the 
long  grass  shall  wave  and  fall  over  the  poet's  sacred  place  of  rest,  and 
they  Avill  gather  around  his  "  FlKESIDE,"  and  that  calm  and  holy 
"  Resignation"  will  teach  them 

To  think  day  after  day  what  he  is  doing 
lu  those  bright  realms  of  air? 

"  Thus  will  they  walk  with  him,  and  keep  unbroken 

The  bond  which  Nature  gives, 
Thinking  that  their  remembrance,  though  unspoken, 

Way  reach  him  where  he  lives." 

There  is  something  so  tender,  so  gentle,  and  so  Avoman-like  in 
the  nature  of  Mr.  Longfellow,  that  his  poems  imbibe  it  bomitifully, 
and  it  brings  them  home  to  the  heart,  and  not  the  mind  alone,  and 
what  the  heart  loves  and  admires,  will  linger  long  ere  time  can  oblit- 
erate it.  He  is  yet  a  Professor  m  Harvard  University,  and  resides  at 
Cambridge,  m  the  old  mansion  once  the  head-quarters  of  George 
Washington,  and  of  wliich  he  writes,  in  a  poem,  "  To  a  Child  ": — 

Once,  ah,  once  within  these  walls,  r 

One  wliom  Memory  oft  recalls, 
The  Fatiiee  of  his  Country  dwelt. 
And  yonder  meadows  broad  and  damp, 


HENRY    W.    LO^'GFELLO"\V. 


The  fires  of  the  besieging  camp 
Eucircled  with  a  hurning  belt. 
Up  and  down  these  echoing  stairs, 
Heavy  with  the  weight  of  cares, 
Sounded  his  majestic  tread ; 
Yes,  witliin  tliis  very  room. 
Sat  he  in  those  hours  of  gloom. 
Weary  both  iu  heart  and  head. 

Li  England,  and  many  other  countries,  !Mr.  Longfellow  is  con- 
sidered the  most  chstingidshed  poet  of  Ameiica.  Giliillan,  in  liis 
EngKsh  work,  published  in  London,  entitled,  "  Literary  Men,"  in 
wliich  Mr.  Longfellow  is  the  only  American  author  mcluded,  thus 
speaks  of  liis  style  and  characteristics : — 

"  The  distinguisliing  quaUties  of  Longfellow  seem  to  be,  beauty  of 
imagination,  deUcacy  of  taste,  wide  sympathy,  and  mild  earnestness, 
expressmg  themselves  sometimes  in  form  of  quamt  and  fantastic  fancy, 
but  always  m  chaste  and  simple  language.  His  fertile  imagination 
spnpatliizes  more  with  the  correct,  the  classical,  and  the  refined,  than 
with  that  outer  and  sterner  world,  where  dwell  the  dreary,  the  rude, 
the  fierce,  and  the  terrible  shapes  of  tilings.  The  scenery  he  describes 
best  is  the  storied  richness  of  the  Rliine,  or  the  golden  glories  of  the 
Inchan  summer,  or  the  en^irons  of  the  old  Nova-Scotian  -sillage,  or 
the  wide  billowing  prauie ;  and  not  those  vast  forests,  where  a  path 
for  the  simbeams  must  be  hewn,  nor  those  wildernesses  of  snow,  where 
the  storm  and  the  wing  of  the  Condor  di^ide  the  sovereignty.  In  the 
midst  of  such  di-eadful  solitudes,  liis  genius  rather  sluvers  and  cowers, 
than  rises  and  reigns. 

"  He  is  a  spuit  of  the  Beautiful,  more  than  the  Sublhue ;  he  has 
laui  on  the  lajj  of  Loveluiess,  and  not  been  dandled,  like  a  hon-cub, 
on  the  knees  of  Terror.  The  magic  he  wields,  though  soft,  is  true 
and  strong.  If  not  a  prophet,  torn  by  a  secret  bm-den,  and  uttering 
it  in  wild,  tumultuous  strains,  he  is  a  genuine  poet  who  has  sought  for, 
and  fomid  msph-ation,  now  in  the  story  and  scenery  of  his  own  coun- 
try, and  now  in  the  lays  and  legends  of  other  lands,  whose  native  vein, 
in  itself  exquisite,  has  been  by  liini  liighly  cultivated  and  deUcately 
cherished.  It  is  to  us  a  proof  of  Longfellow's  originaHty,  that  he  bears 
so  well  and  meekly  his  load  of  accompKshments  and  acquirements. 
His  ornaments,  unlUvC  those  of  the  Sabine  maid,  have  not  crushed 
liim,  nor  impeded  the  motions  of  liis  own  nimd.     He  has  transmuted 


G  HENRY   W.    LONGFELLOW. 

a  Idi'C)  gathered  from  many  languages,  into  a  quick  and  rich  flame» 
wliicli  Ave  feel  to  be  the  flame  of  Genius.  It  is  evident  that  liis  prin- 
cipal obligations  are  due  to  German  literature,  Avliich  over  liim,  as  over 
so  many  at  the  present  day,  exerts  a  certain  Avild  Avitchery,  and  is  tast- 
ed Avith  all  the  sAVCctness  of  forbidden  fruit.  No  Avriter  in  America 
has  more  steeped  his  soul  in  the  spirit  of  German  poetry,  its  blended 
homeliness  and  romance,  its  simplicity  and  fantastic  emphasis,  than 
LongfclloAV.  And  if  he  does  not  often  trust  himself  amidst  the  Avel- 
tcring  chaos  of  its  philosophers,  you  see  him  lured  by  their  fascina- 
tion, hanging  over  theii"  brinli,  and  rapt  in  Avondcr  at  their  strange, 
gigantic,  and  eversliifting  forms.  Indeed  his  "  Hyperion"  contains 
tAvo  or  three  exquisite  bits  of  trancendantalism.  *  *  *  His  poetry  is 
that  of  sentiment,  rather  than  of  thought.  But  the  sentiment  is  never 
false,  nor  strained,  nor  maAA'kish.  It  is  alAA^ays  mild,  generally  manly, 
and  sometimes  it  approaches  the  sublime.  It  touches  both  the  female 
part  of  man's  mind,  and  the  mascuhne  part  of  Avoman's.  He  can  at 
one  time  start  miAVonted  tears  m  the  eyes  of  men,  and  at  another  kin- 
dle on  the  cheek  of  women,  a  glorious  gloAV  of  emotion,  Avliich  the 
term  blush  cannot  adequately  measure ;  as  far  superior  to  it  as  the 
splendor  of  a  smiset  to  the  bloom  of  a  peach. 

"  Besides  his  quality  of  generous,  genial,  manhood,  LongfelloAV  is 
distinguished  bj'  a  mild  rehgious  earnestness.  We  do  not  vouch  for 
the  orthodoxy  of  liis  creed,  but  Ave  do  vouch  for  the  fimi  Christianity 
of  his  spirit.  No  poet  has  more  beautifully  expressed  the  depth  of 
liis  conviction,  that  life  is  an  earnest  reality, — a  sometliing  Avith  eter- 
nal issues  and  dependencies ;  that  this  earth  is  no  scene  of  reveh'y,  or 
market  of  sale,  but  an  arena  of  contest,  and  a  hall  of  doom.  Tliis  is 
the  inspiration  of  his  "  Psalm  of  Life,"  than  Avliich  Ave  have  fcAV  things 
finer,  in  moral  tone,  since  those  odes  by  Avhich  the  millions  of  Israel, 
tuned  their  march  across  the  Anlderness,  and  to  Avliich  the  fiery  pillar 
seemed  to  listen  AA-ith  complacency,  and  to  gloAV  out  a  deejier  crimson, 
in  silent  praise.  To  man's  noAV  Avilder,  more  struggling,  but  still 
more  God-guided  and  hopeful  progress,  toAvards  a  land  of  fairer 
promise,  LongfelloAv's  "  Psahn"  is  a  noble  accompaniment." 


HENRY    W.    LONGFELLOW. 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


AN    EXTRACT,  (a) 


TrCTORUN. 

Our  feelings  and  our  thoughts 
Tend  ever  on,  and  rest  not  in  the  Present, 
As  drops  of  rain  fall  into  some  dark  Avell, 
And  from  below  comes  a  scarce  audible  sound, 
So  fall  our  thoughts  into  the  dark  Hereafter, 
And  their  mysterious  echo  reaches  us. 

PRECIOSA. 

I  have  felt  it  so,  but  found  no  words  to  say  it ! 

I  cannot  reason  ;  I  can  only  feel ! 

But  thou  hast  language  for  all  thoughts  and  feelings. 

Thou  art  a  scholar ;  and  sometimes  I  think 

We  cannot  walk  together  in  this  world  ! 

The  distance  that  divides  us  is  too  great ! 

Henceforth  thy  pathway  lies  among  the  stars ; 

I  must  not  hold  thee  back. 

VICTORIAN. 

Thou  little  skeptic ! 
Dost  thou  still  doubt  ?    What  I  most  prize  in  woman 
Is  her  affections,  not  her  intellect ! 


8 


HENllY   W.    LONGFELLOW. 


The  intellect  is  finite  ;  but  the  affections 
Are  infinite,  and  cannot  be  exhausted. 
Compare  me  with  the  great  men  of  the  earth; 
What  am  I  ?     Why,  a  pigmy  among  giants  ! 
But  if  thou  lovest,  —  mark  me  !  I  say  lovest, 
The  greatest  of  th  ysex  excels  thee  not ! 
The  world  of  affections  is  thy  world, 
Not  that  of  man's  ambition.     In  that  stillness 
Which  most  becomes  a  woman,  calm  and  holy, 
Thou  sittcst  by  the  fireside  of  the  heart, 
Feeding  its  flame.     The  clement  of  fire 
Is  pure.     It  cannot  change  nor  hide  its  nature, 
But  burns  as  brightly  in  a  Gipsy  camp 
As  in  a  palace  hall.     Art  thou  convinced  ? 

PRECIOSA. 

Yes,  that  I  love  thee,  as  the  good  love  heaven ; 
But  not  that  I  am  worthy  of  that  heaven. 
How  shall  I  more  deserve  it  ? 

VICTORIAN. 


By 


loving  more. 


rRECIOSA. 

I  cannot  love  thee  more  ;  my  heart  is  full. 

VICTOmAN. 

Then  let  it  overflow,  and  I  Avill  drink  it, 
As  in  the  summer-time  the  thirsty  sands 
Drink  the  swift  waters  of  the  Manganares, 
And  still  do  thirst  for  more. 


HENRY    W.    LONGFELLOW.  9 


"SICTORL^'. 

She  lies  asleep, 
And  from  her  parted  lips,  her  gentle  breath 
Comes  like  the  fragrance  from  the  lips  of  flowers. 
Her  tender  limbs  are  still,  and  on  her  breast 
The  cross  she  prayed  to,  e'er  she  fell  asleep, 
Rises  and  falls  with  the  soft  tide  of  dreams, 
Like  a  light  barque  safe  moored. 

HTPOLITO. 

"Which  means,  in  prose, 
She's  sleeping  with  her  mouth  a  little  open ! 

VICTORLiX. 

O,  would  I  had  the  old  magician's  "lass 
To  see  her  as  she  lives  in  child-like  sleep  ! 

HYPOLITO. 

And  wouldst  thou  venture  ? 

^^CTORL\N. 

Ay,  indeed  I  would  ! 

HYPOLITO. 

Thou  art  courageous.     Hast  thou  e'er  reflected 
How  much  lies  hidden  in  that  one  word,  noio  1 


10  HENRY    yy.    LONGFELLOW. 


VICTOKLVN. 

Yes  ;  all  the  awful  history  of  Life  ! 

I  oft  have  thought,  my  dear  Ilypolito, 

That  could  we,  by  some  spell  of  magic,  change 

The  world  and  its  inhabitants  to  stone, 

In  the  same  attitudes  they  now  are  in, 

What  fearful  glances  downward  might  we  cast 

Into  the  hollow  chasms  of  human  life  ! 

"What  groups  should  we  behold  about  the  death-bed, 

Putting  to  shame  the  group  of  Niobe  ! 

What  joyful  welcomes,  and  what  sad  farewells  ! 

What  stony  tears  in  those  congealed  eyes  ! 

What  visible  joy  or  anguish  on  those  cheeks ! 

What  bridal  pomps,  and  what  funeral  shows  ! 

What  foes,  like  gladiators,  fierce  and  struggling  ! 

What  lovers  with  their  marble  lips  together  ! 

HYPOLITO. 

Ay,  there  it  is  !  and,  if  I  were  in  love, 
That  is  the  very  point  I  most  should  dread. 
This  magic  glass,  these  magic  spells  of  thine. 
Might  tell  a  tale  'twere  better  left  untold. 


HYPOLITO. 


With  much  truth  in  it. 
I  hope  thou  wilt  profit  by  it ;  and  in  earnest 
Try  to  forget  this  lady  of  thy  love. 


HENRY   W.    LONGFELLOW.  11 


VICTORIAN, 

I  will  forget  her  !     All  dear  recollections 
Pressed  in  my  heart  like  flowers  within  a  book, 
Shall  be  torn  out,  and  scattered  to  the  winds  ! 
I  will  forget  her  !     But  perhaps  hereafter, 
When  she  shall  learn  how  heartless  is  this  world, 
And  she  will  say,  'He  was  indeed  my  friend  ! ' 
O,  would  I  were  a  soldier,  not  a  scholar. 
That  the  loud  march,  the  deafening  beat  of  drums, 
The  shattering  blast  of  the  brass-throated  trumpet. 
The  din  of  arms,  the  onslaught  and  the  storm. 
And  a  swift  death  might  make  me  deaf  forever 
To  the  upbraidings  of  this  foolish  heart ! 

HYPOLITO.    . 

Then  let  that  foolish  heart  upbraid  no  more  ! 
To  conquer  love,  one  need  but  loill  to  conquer. 

VICTORLIN. 

Yet  good  Hypolito,  it  is  in  vain 

I  throw  into  Oblivion's  sea  the  sword 

That  pierces  me  ;  for,  like  Excalibar, 

With  gemmed  and  flushing  hilt,  it  will  not  sink. 

There  rises  from  below  a  hand  that  grasps  it. 

And  waves  it  in  the  air ;  and  wailing  voices 

Are  heard  along  the  shore. 

HYPOLITO. 

And  yet  at  last 
Down  sank  Excalibar  to  rise  no  more. 
This  is  not  well.     In  truth  it  vexes  me. 


12  HENRY   W.    LONGFELLOW, 

Instead  of  whistling  to  the  steeds  of  Time, 

To  make  them  jog  on  more  merrily  with  life's  burden, 

Like  a  dead  weight  thou  hangcst  on  the  wheels. 

Thou  art  too  young,  too  full  of  lusty  health 

To  talk  of  dying. 

VICTORLVX. 

Yet  I  fain  would  die  ! 
To  go  through  life,  unloving  and  unloved ; 
To  feel  that  thirst  and  hunger  of  the  soul 
We  cannot  still ;  that  longing,  that  wild  impulse, 
And  struggle  after  something  we  have  not 
And  cannot  love  ;  the  effort  to  be  strong  ; 
And  like  the  Spartan  boy,  to  smile,  and  smile, 
While  secret  wounds  do  bleed  beneath  our  cloaks ; 
All  this  the  dead  feel  not,  —  the  dead  alone  ! 
Would  I  were  with  .them  I 

HYPOLITO. 

^We  shall  all  bo  soon. 

VICTORIAN. 

It  cannot  be  too  soon  ;   for  I  am  weary 

Of  this  bewildering  masquerade  of  Life, 

Where  strangers  walk  as  friends,  and  friends  as  strangers; 

Where  whispers  overheard  betray  false  hearts ; 

And  through  the  mazes  of  the  crowd  we  chase 

Some  form  of  loveliness,  that  smiles  and  beckons, 

And  cheats  us  with  fair  words,  only  to  leave  us 

A  mockery  and  a  jest;  maddened,  —  confused, — 

Not  knov/incr  friend  from  foe. 


HENIIY   W.    LOXGFELLOW.  13 

HYPOLITO. 

Why  seek  to  know  ? 
Enjoy  the  merry  shrove-tide  of  thy  youth  ! 
Take  each  ftiir  mask  for  what  it  gives  itself, 
Nor  strive  to  look  beneath  it. 

VICTOIlIA^\ 

I  confess, 
That  were  the  wiser  part.     But  Hope  no  longer 
Comforts  my  soul.     I  am  a  wretched  man, 
Much  like  a  poor  and  shipwrecked  mariner, 
Who,  struggling  to  climb  iip  into  the  boat, 
Has  both  his  bruised  and  bleeding  hands  cut  off. 
And  sinks  again  into  the  weltering  sea, 
Helpless  and  hopeless  ! 

HYPOLITO. 

Yet  thou  shalt  not  perish. 
The  strength  of  thine  own  arm  is  thy  salvation. 
Above  thy  head,  through  rifted  clouds,  there  shines 
A  glorious  star.     Be  patient.     Trust  thy  star  ! 


14  HENRY    W.    LONGFELLOW, 


A  PSALM  OF   LIFE. 

AVILVT    THE    HEART    OF    THE  YOUXG    JLVN    SAID   TO    THE    PSALMIST. 

Tell  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers, 

'  Life  is  but  an  empty  dream  ! ' 
For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 

And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

Life  is  real !  Life  is  earnest ! 
And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal ; 
'  Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest,' 
Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow. 

Is  our  destined  end  or  way ; 
But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow  ' 

Finds  us  farther  than  to-day. 

Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting, 

And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave, 

Still,  like  muffled  drums  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 

In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle 

In  the  bivouac  of  Life, 
Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle  ! 

Be  a  hero  in  the  strife. 


HENRY    W.    LONGFELLOW. 


15 


Trust  no  Future,  howe'cr  pleasant ! 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead  ! 
Act,  —  act  in  the  living  Present ! 

Heart  within,  and  God  o"erhead  ! 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 
"We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 

And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  Time  ; 

Footprints,  that  perhaps  another. 
Sailing  o'er  life's  solemn  main, 

A  forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother. 
Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 


Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing, 
With  a  heart  for  any  fate  ; 

Still  aching,  still  pursuing, 
Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait. 


16  HEXRY    W.    LONGFELLOW. 


THE  VILLAGE  BLACKSMITIL 

Under  a  spreading  chestnut  tree 

The  village  smithy  stands  ; 
The  smith,  a  mighty  man  is  he, 

With  large  and  sinewy  hands  ; 
And  the  muscles  of  his  brawny  arms 

Are  stron":  as  iron  bands. 


*o 


His  hair  is  crisp,  and  black,  and  long. 

His  ftice  is  like  the  tan ; 
His  brow  is  wet  with  honest  sweat 

He  earns  whatever  he  can. 
And  looks  the  whole  world  in  the  face, 

For  he  owes  not  any  man. 

Week  in  and  week  out,  from  morn  till  night, 
You  can  hear  his  bellows  blow  ; 

You  can  hear  him  swing  his  heavy  sledge. 
With  measured  beat  and  slow, 

Like  a  sexton  ringing  the  village  bell, 
When  the  evening  sun  is  low. 

And  children  coming  home  from  school 

Look  in  at  the  opsn  door ; 
They  love  to  see  the  flaming  forge, 

And  hear  the  bellows  roar. 
And  catch  the  burning  sparks  that  fly 

Like  the  chaff  from  a  threshing  floor. 


I 


HENRY   W.    LONGFELLOW.  17 


He  goes  on  Sunday  to  the  cliurch, 

And  sits  among  his  boys  ; 
lie  hears  the  parson  pray  and  preach. 

He  hears  his  daughter's  voice, 
Singing  in  the  village  choir, 

And  it  makes  his  heart  rejoice. 

It  sounds  to  him  like  her  mother's  voice, 

Singing  in  Paradise  ! 
He  needs  must  think  of  her  once  more, 

How  in  the  grave  she  lies  ; 
And  with  his  hard  roiigh  hand  he  wipes 

A  tear  out  of  his  eyes. 

Toiling,  —  rejoicing, —  sorrowing, 
Onward  through  life  he  goes  ; 

Each  morning  sees  some  task  begin. 
Each  evening  sees  it  close  ; 

Something  attempted,  something  done, 
Has  earned  a  night's  repose. 

Thanks,  thanks  to  thee,  my  worthy  friend, 
For  the  lesson  thou  hast  taught ! 

Thus  at  the  flaming  forge  of  life 
Our  fortunes  must  be  wrouo;ht ; 

Thus  on  its  sounding  anvil  shaped 
Each  burning  deed  and  thought. 


18 


HEXRY   W.    LONGFELLOW. 


THE  BELEAGUERED  CUT. 

I  HAVE  read  in  some  old  marvellous  talc, 
Some  legend  strange  and  vague, 

That  a  midnight  host  of  spectres  pale 
Beleaguered  the  walls  of  Prague. 

Beside  the  Moldar's  rushing  stream, 
With  the  wan  moon  overhead, 

There  stood,  as  in  an  awful  dream, 
The  army  of  the  dead. 

"White  as  a  sea-fog,  landward  bound, 
The  spectral  camj)  was  seen, 

And,  with  a  sorrowful,  deep  sound, 
The  river  flowed  between. 


No  other  voice  nor  sound  was  there, 
No  drum,  nor  sentry's  pace  ; 

The  mist-like  banners  clasped  the  air. 
As  clouds  with  clouds  embrace. 


But,  when  the  old  cathedral  bell 
Proclaimed  the  morning  prayer, 

The  white  pavilions  rose  and  fell 
On  the  alarmed  air. 


HENRY   W.    LONGFELLOW. 


19 


Down  the  broad  valley,  fast  and  far 

The  troubled  army  fled  ; 
Up  rose  the  glorious  morning  star, 

The  ghastly  host  Avas  dead. 

I  have  read,  in  the  marvellous  heart  of  man. 
That  strange  and  mystic  scroll, 

Than  an  army  of  phantoms  vast  and  wan 
Beleaguer  the  human  soul. 

Encamped  beside  Life's  rushing  stream, 

In  Fancy's  misty  light. 
Gigantic  shapes  and  shadows  gleam 

Portentious  through  the  night. 

Upon  its  midnight  battle-ground 

The  spectral  camp  is  seen, 
And,  with  a  sorrowful,  deep  sound. 

Flows  the  River  of  Life  between. 

No  other  voice,  nor   sound  is  there, 

In  the  army  of  the  grave ; 
No  other  challenge  breaks  the  air, 

But  the  rushing  of  Life's  wave. 

And,  when  the  solemn  and  deep  church-bell 

Entreats  the  soul  to  pray. 
The  midnight  phantoms  feel  the  spell, 

The  shadows  sweep  away. 

Down  the  broad  Vale  of  Tears  afar 

The  spectral  camp  is  fled  : 
Faith  shineth  as  a  morning  star, 

Our  ghastly  fears  are  dead. 


20  HENRY   W.    LONGFELLOW. 


PHANTOMS. 

All  houses  wherein  men  have  lived  and  died 
Arc  haunted  houses.    Through  the  open  doors 

The  harmless  phantoms  on  their  errands  glide, 
With  feet  that  make  no  sound  upon  the  floors. 

We  meet  them  at  the  doorway,  on  the  stair, 
Along  the  passage  they  come  and  go. 

Impalpable  impressions  on  the  air, 

A  sense  of  something  ifloving  to  and  fro. 

There  arc  more  guests  at  table  than  the  hosts 

Invited ;  the  illuminated  hall 
Is  thronged  with  quiet,  inoffensive  ghosts, 

As  silent  as  the  pictures  on  the  wall. 

The  stranger  at  my  fireside  cannot  see 

The  forms  I  see,  nor  hear  the  sounds  I  hear : 

He  but  perceives  what  is ;   while  unto  me 
All  that  has  been  is  visible  and  clear. 

We  have  no  title-deeds  to  house  or  lands ; 

Owners  and  occupants  of  earlier  dates 
From  graves  forgotten  stretch  their  dusty  hands 

And  hold  in  mortmain  still  their  old  estates. 


HENRY   W.    LOXGFELLOW.  21 


The  spirit  world  around  this  world  of  sense 
Floats  like  an  atmosphere,  and  everywhere 

Wafts  through  these  earthly  mists  and  vapors  dense, 
A  vital  breath  of  more  ethereal  air. 

Our  little  lives  are  kept  in  equipoise 

By  opposite  attractions  and  desires  ; 
The  struggle  of  the  instinct  that  enjoys 

And  the  more  noble  instinct  that  aspires. 

The  perturbations,  the  perpetual  jar 
Of  earthly  wants  and  aspirations  high. 

Come  from  the  influence  of  that  unseen  star  — 
That  undiscovered  planet  in  our  sky. 

And  as  the  moon,  from  some  dark  gate  of  cloud. 
Throws  o'er  the  sea  a  floating  bridge  of  light, 

Across   whose  trembling  plank  our  fancies  crowd, 
Into  the  realms  of  mystery  and  night, 

So  from  the  world  of  spirits  there  descends 
A  bridge  of  light,  connecting  it  with  this. 

O'er  whose  unsteady  floor,  that  sways  and  bends, 
Under  our  thoughts  above  the  dark  abyss. 


23  IIEMllY    W.    LONGFELLOW. 


RESIGNATION. 

There  is  no  flock  however  watched  and  tended, 

But  one  dead  lamb  is  there  ! 
There  is  no  fireside  howsoe'er  defended, 

But  has  one  vacant  chair. 

The  air  is  full  of  farewells  to  the  dying, 

And  mournings  for  the  dead  ; 
The  heart  of  Ilachel  for  her  children  crying, 

Will  not  be  comforted ! 

Let  us  be  patient !    These  severe  afflictions 

Not  from  the  ground  arise, 
But  oftentimes  celestial  benedictions 

Assume  this  dark  disguise. 

We  see  but  dimly  thro'  the  mists  and  vaj)ors ; 

Amid  these  earthly  damps 
"What  seem  to  us  but  sad,  funeral  tapers 

May  be  heaven's  distant  lamps. 

There  is  no  Death  !     What  seems  so  is  transition  ; 

This  life  of  mortal  breath 
Is  but  a  suburb  of  the  life  elysian. 

Whose  portals  we  call  Death. 


HENRY   W.    LONGFELLOW.  23 

She  is  not  dead,  —  the  child  of  our  afFection,  — 

But  gone  unto  that  school 
Where  she  no  longer  needs  our  poor  protection, 

And  Christ  himself  doth  rule. 

In  that  great  cloister's  stillness  and  seclusion, 

By  guardian  angels  led, 
Safe  from  temptation,  safe  from  sin's  pollution. 

She  lives,  whom  we  call  dead. 

Day  after  day  we  think  what  she  is  doing 

In  those  bright  realms  of  air ; 
Year  after  year  her  tender  steps  pursuing 

Behold  her  grown  more  fair. 

Thus  do  we  walk  with  her,  and  keep  xmbroken 
The  bond  which  nature  gives,  * 

Thinking  that  our  remembrance,  though  unspoken, 
May  reach  her  where  she  lives. 

Not  as  a  child  shall  we  again  behold  her ; 

For  when  with  raptures  wild 
In  our  embraces  we  again  enfold  her, 

She  will  not  be  a  child  ; 

But  a  fair  maiden,  in  her  Father's  mansion. 

Clothed  with  celestial  grace  ; 
And  beautiful  with  all  the  soul's  expansion 

Shall  we  behold  her  face. 


24  HENRY    W.    LONGFELLOW. 

And  though  at  times  impetuous  with  emotion 

And  anguish  long  supprcss'd, 
The  swelling  heart  heaves  moaning  like  the  ocean, 

That  cannot  be  at  rest, — 

We  will  be  patient,  and  assuage  the  feeling, 

We  may  not  wholly  stay  ; 
By  silence  sanctifying,  not  concealing. 

The  grief  that  must  have  sway. 


A  PASSING  THOUGHT. 

O  AVHAT  a  glory  doth  this  world  put  on 
For  him  who,  with  a  fervent  heart  goes  forth 
Under  the  bright  and  glorious  sky  and  looks 
On  duties  well  performed,  and  days  well  spent ! 
For  him  the  wind,  ay,  and  the  yellow  leaves 
Shall  have  a  voice,  and  give  him  eloquent  teachings. 
He  shall  so  hoar  the  solemn  hymn,  that  Death 
Has  lifted  up  for  all,  that  he  shall  go 
To  his  long  resting-place  Avithout  a  tear. 


HENRY    AV.    LONGFELLOW.  25 


EXCELSIOR. 


The  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast. 
As  through  an  Alpine  village  passed 
A  youth,  -who  bore,  'mid  snow  and  ice, 
A  banner  with  the  strange  device  — 
Excelsior ! 


His  brow  Avas  sad  ;  his  eye  beneath, 
Flashed  like  a  faulchion  from  its  sheath, 
And  like  a  silver  clarion  rung 
The  accents  of  that  unknown  tongue, 
Excelsior  ! 


In  happy  homes  he  saw  the  light 
Of  household  fires  gleam  warm  and  bright ; 
Above,  the  spectral  glaciers  shone. 
And  from  his  lips  escaped  a  groan, 
Excelsior  ! 


'  Try  not  the  Pass  ! '  the  old  man  said ; ' 
'  Dark  lowers  the  tempest  overhead, 
The  roaring  torrent  is  deep  and  wide ! ' 
And  loud  that  clarion  voice  replied, 
Excelsior  ! 


26  HENRY  ^y.  loxgfellow. 


'  O  stay,'  the  maiden  said,  '  and  rest 
Thy  weary  head  upon  this  breast !  ' 
A  tear  stood  in  his  bright  blue  eye, 
But  still  he  answered,  with  a  sigh, 
Excelsior ! 

t 

'  Beware  the  pine-tree's  withered  branch  I 
Beware  the  awful  avalanche  ! ' 
This  was  the  peasant's  last  Good-night, 
A  voice  replied,  far  up  the  height. 
Excelsior  ! 

At  break  of  day,  as  heavenward 
The  pious  monks  of  St.  Bernard 
Uttered  the  oft-repeated  prayer, 
A  voice  cried  through  the  startled  air 
Excelsior ! 


A  traveller,  by  the  faithful  hound, 
Half-buried-in  the  snow  was  found, 
Still  grasping  in  his  hand  of  ice 
That  banner  with  the  strange  device 
Excelsior ! 

There  in  the  twilight,  cold  and  gray, 
Lifeless,  but  beautifil,  he  lay, 
And  from  the  sky,  serene  and  far, 
A  voice   fell,  like  a  falling  star. 
Excelsior  ! 


HENRY   W.    LONGFELLOW.  27 


GOD'S-ACRE. 

I  xiKE  tliat  ancient  Saxon  phrase,  which  calls 
The  burial-ground  God's-Acre  !     It  is  just ; 

It  consecrates  each  grave  within  its  walls, 

And  breathes  a  benison  o'er  the  sleeping  dust. 

God's-Acre  !     Yes,  that  blessed  name  imparts 
Comfort  to  those,  who  in  the  grave  have  sown 

The  seed,  that  they  had  garnered  in  their  hearts, 
Their  bread  of  life,  alas  !  no  more  their  own. 

Into  its  furrows  shall  we  all  be  cast, 

In  the  sure  faith,  that  we  shall  rise  again 

At  the  great  harvest,  when  the  arch-angel's  blast 
Shall  winnow,  like  a  fan,  the  chaff  and  grain. 

Then  shall  the  good  stand  in  immortal  bloom. 
In  the  flxir  gardens  of  that  second  birth ; 

And  each  bright  blossom,  mingle  its  perfume 

With  that  of  flowers,  which  never  bloomed  on  earth. 

With  thy  rude  ploughshare.  Death,  turn  up  the  sod, 
And  spread  the  furrow  for  the  seed  we  sow ; 

This  is  the  field  and  Acre  of  our  God, 

This  is  the  place,  where  human  harvests  grow ! 


28  HENRY    W.    I-ONGFELLOW. 


THE  RAINY  DAY. 

The  day  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary  ; 
It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  never  weary ; 
The  vine  still  clings  to  the  mouldering  wall, 
But  at  every  gust  the  dead  leaves  fall, 
And  the  day  is  dark  and  dreary. 

My  life  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary ; 
It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  never  Aveary  ; 
My  thoughts  still  cling  to  the  mouldering  Past, 
But  the  hopes  of  youth  fall  thick  in  the  blast 
And  the  days  are  dark  and  dreary. 

Be  still,  sad  heart !  and  cease  repining ; 
Behind  the  clouds  is  the  sun  still  shining  ; 
Thy  fate  is  the  common  fate  of  all, 
Into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall, 

Some  days  must  be  dark  and  dreary. 


WOMAN'S    LOYE. 


Mat  slighted  woman  turn, 
And,  as  a  vine  the  oak  liath  shaken  off, 
Bend  lightly  to  her  leaning  trust  again? 
O  Nol  by  all  her  loveliness— by  all 
That  makes  life  poetry  and  beauty,  no! 
Make  her  a  slave;  steal  from  her  rosy  cheek 
By  needless  jealousies;  let  the  last  star 
Leave  her  a  watcher  by  your  couch  of  pain ; 
Wrong  her  by  petulence,  suspicion,  all 
That  makes  her  cup  a  bitterness — yet  give 
One  evidence  of  love,  and  earth  has  not 
An  emblem  of  devotedness  like  her. 
But  oh!  estrange  her  once — it  boots  not  how- 
By  wrong  or  silence— anything  that  tells 
A  change  has  come  upon  your  tenderness, — 
And  there  is  not  a  feeling  out  of  heaven 
Her  pride  o'ermasteretU  not. 


NATHANIEL   PARKER   WILLIS 

AGE,  47  YEARS. 


K  P.  Willis  is  a  native  of  the  city  of  Poi-tland,  Avhere  he  was 
born  on  the  twentieth  day  of  January,  1807.  His  early  years  were 
mostly  spent  in  Boston  and  vicinity.  He  received  his  preparatory 
education  at  the  Phillips  Academy,  in  Andover,  Mass.,  and  entered 
Yale  College,  New-Haven,  at  an  early  age,  and  was  graduated  from 
it  in  1827.  Before  he  had  attained  the  age  of  twenty,  Mr.  "Willis 
won  for  liimself  a  then  extended  and  somewhat  endm-mg  popularity, 
by  his  sacred  poems  and  sketches.  He  soon  after  published,  in  1828, 
a  "  Poem,  delivered  before  the  Society  of  United  Brothers  of  BroMii 
University,"  and  his  "  Sketches,"  which  were  well  received.  For  two 
years  succeechng,  he  was  editor  and  proprietor  of  a  literary  periochcal, 
under  the  title  of  "  The  American  ^Monthly  ]\Iagazuie,"  which,  m  1830, 
was  merged  into  the  Xew-York  ^lirror,  ^\ith  wliich  he  became  comiect- 
ed.  The  follo\Aing  year  he  went  to  England,  wherQ  he  became  very 
familiar  with  the  leading  Hterary  men,  and  many  of  the  most  distin- 
guished personages,  of  whom  he  wrote  mth  an  unlicensed  familiarity, 
in  his  "  Fu-st  Impressions"  of  the  country,  people,  &c.,  in  a  series  of 
letters  published  m  the  "  ]Mu-ror,"  and  which  v/ere  afterwards  collect- 
ed and  issued  m  a  volume,  in  London.  The  freedom  with  which 
he  gave  private  gossip  ■with  distmguished  men,  to  the  public,  caused 
the  volume  to  be  jvistly  and  very  severely  criticised,  and  also  led  to 
unfriendly  troubles.  It  is  one  of  ]Mr.  "Willis'  greatest  faults,  that  he 
allows  liimself  to  give  to  the  public  eye,  what  his  o^ni  mind  should 
tell  him  -was  intended  only  for  his  private  ear. 


32  NATHANIEL    T.    WILLIS. 

In  1837,  Mr.  Willis  returned  to  the  United  States,  bringing  -with 
liim  his  wife,  an  accomplislied  iMiglish  lady,  to  -whom  he  -vvas  married 
in  1S3j.  In  a  poem  to  liis  mother,  he  affectionately  refers  to  her  as 
follows : — 

But  tliere's  a  change,  beloved  mother! 

To  stir  far  deeper  thou;,'lits  of  thine; 
I  come — but  witli  iiic  comes  auotlier 

To  share  the  lieart  once  only  mine'. 
Thou,  on  whose  <houp;lits,  when  sad  and  lonely, 

One  star  arose  in  memory's  heaven — 
Thou  who  hast  watched  one  treasure  only — 

Water'd  one  flower  with  tears  at  even — 
Eoom  in  thy  heart  1    The  hearth  she  left 

Js  darkened  to  lend  liprlit  to  ours! 
There  are  bright  flowers  of  care  bereft, 

And  hearts — that  hinguish  more  than  flowers; 
She  was  their  light^tlieir  very  air — 

lioom,  mother!  in  thy  heart!  place  for  her  in  thy  prayer! 

This  lady  is  said  to  have  been  a  most  excellent  Avife,  and  made 
the  poet's  home  a  place  of  happiness  and  love.  She  died  a  few  years 
after,  and  he  married  for  a  second  wife,  a  Miss  Grinnell,  of  New- 
York  city.  On-  liis  return,  he  retu-ed  to  a  beautifid  comitry  retreat, — 
"  Glcnmary,"  situated  on  the  Susquehanna  river,  and  in  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  and  romantic  portions  of  the  Empire  State.  He  thus 
alludes,  with  a  beautiful  thankfuhiess,  in  a  "  Reverie  at  Glenmary,"  to 
the  pros2)erity  and  happiness  that  he  there  enjoyed. 

I  have  enough,  O  God!    My  heart  to  night 
Kuns  over  with  its  fulness  of  content. 

I\ich,  though  poor; 
3Iy  low  roofd  cottage  is  this  hour  a  heaven. 

O  Thou  who  lookest 
Upon  my  brimming  heart  this  tranquil  eve, 
Knowe.*t  its  fidness,  as  thou  dost  the  dew 
Sent  to  tlie  liidden  violet  by  Thee. 

vSincc  then,  time  and  fortune  have  changed  his  lot,  and  other  feet 
now  wander  amid  those  once  loved  scenes,  and  other  voices  resound 
within  the  walls  of  that  low  roofed  cottage,  once  so  full  of  happiness. 
jNIr.  Willis  made  a  second  nsit  to  England,  in  1839,  and  while 
there,  published  several  ])opular  works,  which  were  well  received, 
and  had  an  extensive  sale.     The  following  year  he  returned  home 


NATHANIEL    P.    WILLIS.  33 

again,  and  soon  after  published  "  Letters  from  under  a  Bridge,"  and 
a  volume  of  his  "Poems."  Since  then  he  has  pubHshcd  numerous 
volumes,  among  M'liich  are  "  I^ife  Here  and  There" — "  People  I  Have 
Met"  — "Hurry  Graphs"  — "Fun  Jottmgs" —  "  Health  Trip  to  the 
Tropics" — "  Summer  Cruise  in  the  MccUterranean" — "  Famous  Persons 
and  Places ;  " — also  a  number  of  illustrated  volumes  of  Historv,  &c.,  for 
London  houses.  He  now  resides  at  "  Idlewild,"  liis  beautiful  summer 
residence,  situated  upon  the  bank  of  tlie  Hudson,  and  where  he  is  still 
devoted  to  the  Uterature  of  fashionable  life.  He  is  also  connected 
Avith  George  P.  Morris,  the  poet,  as  editor  and  proprietor  of  the 
"  Home  Jom-nal,"  one  of  the  ablest  literary  Aveeklies  in  this  comitry. 


Since  A\Titmg  the  foregoing  brief  sketch,  we  have  received  the 
painful  intelligence  that  Mr.  Willis  is  now  in  very  feeble  health,  and 
failing  daily,  and  we  are  fearful  that  the  pen  that  has  often  beguiled 
om-  leism-e  horn's  mth  a  sprightly,  charming  interest,  a^U  soon  be  laid 
aside,  never  more  to  be  resumed.  We  shall  miss  liim.  He  has 
written  as  no  other  can.  There  was  an  origmaHty, — in  fact,  a  par- 
ticular and  peculiar  branch  of  Hteratm'e  that  suited  his  talent,  and  m 
which  he  was  excelled  by  none.  But  now  the  blighting  mfluence  that 
heralds  the  approach  of  death,  has  silenced,  perha2)s  forever,  liis  fruit- 
ful pen.  He  is  a  bright  star  in  the  hterary  firmament,  that  going 
out,  still  retams  its  brilliant  light,  globing  with  a  pm-er  and  holier 
softness  as  it  disappears  from  our  \iew.  We  cannot  refrain  fi-om  in- 
clucUng  here,  a  brief  portion  of  ^Nlr.  Willis'  last  letter,  and  the  remarks 
of  the  poet  Bryant,  of  the  New-York  '  Evening  Post' : 

"  But  consumption,  mourned  over  as  it  is,  seems  to  me  a  gentle 
untjing  of  the  knot  of  life,  instead  of  the  sudden  and  harsh  tearing 
asunder  of  its  thi'eads  by  other  disease — a  tenderness  in  the  destroy- 
ing angel,  as  it  were,  which  greatly  softens,  for  some,  liis  inevitable 
errand  to  all.  It  is  a  decay  with  little  or  no  j^ain,  insensible  almost  in 
its  progress,  delayed  sometimes,  year  after  year,  in  its  more  fatal  ap- 
proaches. And  it  is  not  alone  in  its  indulgent  prolonging  and  defer- 
ring, that  consumption  is  Hke  a  blessing.  The  cords  which  it  first 
loosens  are  the  coarser  ones  most  confining  to  the  mind.  The  weight 
of  the  material  senses  is  gradually  taken  from  the  soul  with  the  light- 
ening of  their  food  and  the  lessening  of  their  strengtli.  Probably, 
till  he  ovms  himself  an  invalid,  no  man  has  ever  given  the  wings  of 
liis  spuit  room  enough — few,  if  any,  have  thought  to  adjust  the  niin- 


34 


NATHANIEL    P.    WILLIS. 


istcrings  to  body  and  soul  so  as  to  subdue  the  senses  to  their  seconda- 
ry place  and  play.  '\\"nh  illness  enough  for  this,  and  not  enough  to 
distress  or  ■weaken — with  consumption,  in  other  words,  as  most  com- 
monly experienced — the  mind  becomes  conscious  of  a  wondei-fully 
new  freedom  and  2)redominance.  Tilings  around  alter  their  value. 
Estimates  of  persons  and  pm-suits  strangely  climge.  Nature  seems 
as  newly  beautiful  as  if  a  film  had  fallen  from  the  eyes.  The  pm-er 
affections,  the  simpler  motives,  tlie  humbler  and  more  secluded  reh- 
ances  for  symjiathy,  are  found  to  have  been  the  closest-linked  with 
thoughts  bolder  and  freer.  AVho  has  not  wondered  at  the  cheerful- 
ness of  consumptive  persons  ?  It  is  because,  with  the  senses  kept  un- 
der by  invalid  treatment,  there  is  no  "  depression  of  spirits."  With 
careful  regimen  and  the  system  purified  and  disciplined,  life,  what 
there  is  of  it,  is  in  the  most  exliilerating  balance  of  its  varied  propor- 
tions. Death  is  not  dreaded  where  there  is,  thus,  such  a  conscious 
breaking  through  of  the  Avings  of  another  life,  freer  and  higher." 


"  And  here  the  *  Letters  fi-om  Idlewild '  come  to  an  end.  The  au- 
thor has  thus  long,  not  too  long,  he  trusts — made  the  readers  of  the 

'  Home  Joimial'  guests  at  his  home He  assures  these 

kind  thousands  that  the  memory  of  their  sympathetic  feelings  Avill  be 
tenderly  cherished  in  his  heart,  though  the  gate  of  '  Idlewild'  is  here 
shut  upon  the  pen,  that  is  their  servant." 

The  reader  caimot  fail  to  observe  the  calm  and  jielding  resigna- 
tion to  liis  fiitc,  that  is  revealed  in  the  foregoing  closing  portion  of 
Mr.  AA'ilUs'  farewell  letter  fi-om  '  IdlewiliU     Mr.  Bryant  says  of  it, 

"  We  have  read  Mith  deep  emotion,  the  valedictory  letter  of  ^Ir. 
Willis,  from  '  Idlewild.'  Death,  after  all,  with  all  the  gilding  from 
the  sunlight  beyond,  is  a  dark  cloud  to  pass  through ;  and  the  last 
parting  with  those  who  have  done  much  to  brighten  this  side  of  the 
mysterious  valley  for  us,  as  they  step  down  into  its  shadoM's,  is  not 
easy.  !Mr.  "Willis  is  one  of  the  most  fascinating  writers  in  the  English 
language — and  who,  to-day,  will  remember  anything  of  his  productions 
but  their  excellences  ?  This  letter  Avill  moisten  eyes  in  widely-scat- 
tered homes,  Avhere  the  face  and  form  of  the  author  are  unknown,  but 
where  liis  writings  have  beguiled  many  an  horn-  of  its  weariness.  It 
is  like  the  love  music  of  a  long  familiar  harp,  whose  chords  we  know 
are  breaking." 


NATHANIEL    P.    WILLIS.  35 


THE  CONFESSIONAL. 


When  thou  hast  met  with  careless  hearts  and  cold, 
Hearts  that  young  love  may  touch,  but  never  hold, — 
Not  changeless,  as  the  loved  and  left  of  old — 

Kemember  me— remember  me — 

I  passionately  pray  of  thee! 

Lady  E.  S.  Wortlet. 


I  THOUGHT  of  thee  —  I  thought  of  thee, 

On  ocean  many  a  weary  night  — 
"When  heaved  the  long  and  sullen  sea, 

With  only  waves  and  stars  in  sight. 
We  stole  along  by  isles  of  balm, 

We  furl'd  before  the  coming  gale, 
We  slept  amid  the  breathless  calm, 

We  flew  beneath  the  straining  sail  — 
But  thou  wert  lost  for  years  to  me, 
And,  day  and  night,  I  thought  of  thee  ! 

I  thought  of  thee  —  I  thought  of  thee, 

In  France  —  amid  the  gay  saloon, 
Where  eyes,  as  dark  as  eyes  may  be 

Are  many  as  the  leaves  in  June  — 
Where  life  is  love,  and  even  the  air 

Is  pregnant  with  impassion'd  thought, 
And  song  and  dance  and  music  are 

With  one  warm  meaning  fraught  — 
My  half-snared  heart  broke  lightly  free, 
And,  with  a  blush,  I  thought  of  thee. 


36  NATHANIEL   P.    "WILLIS. 

I  thought  of  thee  —  I  thought  of  thee, 

In  Florence  —  where  the  fiery  hearts 
Of  Italy  are  breathed  away 

In  wonders  of  the  deathless  arts  ; 
"Where  strays  the  Contadina  down 

Yal  d'Arno  with  a  song  of  old ; 
Where  clime  and  woman  seldom  frown, 

And  life  runs  over  sands  of  gold  ; 
I  stray' d  to  lone  Ficsole 
On  many  an  eve,  and  thought  of  thee. 

I  thought  of  thee  —  I  thought  of  thee, 

In  Rome,  —  when  on  the  Palatine 
Night  left  the  Caesars'  palace  free 

To  Time's  forgetful  foot  and  mine ; 
Or,  on  the  Coliseum's  wall. 

When  moonlight  touch'd   the  Jfied  stone. 
Reclining,  with  a  thought  of  all 

That  o'er  this  scene  has  come  and  gone  — 
The  shades  of  Rome  would  start  and  flee 
Unconsciously  —  I  thought  of  thee. 

I  thought  of  thee  —  I  thought  of  thee, 

In  Yallombrosia's  holy  shade. 
Where  nobles  born  the  friars  be 

By  life's  rude  changes  humbler  made. 
Here  Milton  framed  his  Paradise  ; 

I  slept  within  his  very  cell ; 
Aud,  as  I  closed  my  weary  eyes, 

I  thought  the  cowl  would  fit  me  well  — 
The  cloisters  breathed,  it  seem'd  to  me. 
Of  heart's-ease  —  but  I  thought  of  thee. 


NATHANIEL    P.    WILLIS.  S7 


I  thought  of  thee  —  I  thought  of  thee, 

•In  Venice,  —  on  a  night  in  June  ; 
When,  through  the  city  of  tlie  sea. 

Like  dust  of  silver  slept  the  moon. 
Slow  turn'd  his  oar  the  gondolier. 

And,  as  the  black  barks  glided  by, 
The  water  to  my  leaning  ear 

Bore  back  the  lover's  passing  sigh  — 
It  was  no  place  alone  to  be  — 
I  thought  of  thee  —  I  thought  of  thee. 

I  thought  of  thee  —  I  thought  of  thee. 

In  the  Ionian  isles  —  when  straying 
With,  wise  Ulysses  by  the  sea  — 

Old  Homer's  ^ngs  around  me  playing ; 
Or,  watching  the  bewitch'd  caique. 

That  o'er  the  star-lit  waters  flew, 
I  listen'd  to  the  helmsman  Greek, 

Who  sung  the  song  that  Sappho  knew  — 
The  poet's  spell,  the  bark,  the  sea. 
All  vanish'd  —  as  I  thought  of  thee. 

I  thought  of  thee  —  I  thought  of  thee. 

In  Greece  —  when  rose  the  Parthenon 
Majestic  o'er  the  Egean  sea. 

And  heroes  with  it,  one  by  one ; 
When,  in  the  grove  of  Academe, 

Where  Lais  and  Leontium  stray'd 
Discussing  Plato's  mystic  theme, 

I  lay  at  noontide  in  the  shade  — 
The  Egean  wind,  the  whispering  tree, 
Had  voices  —  and  I  thought  of  thee. 


38  NATHANIEL  P.    WILLIS. 

I  thought  of  thee  —  I  thought  of  thee, 

In  Asia  —  on  the  Dardanelles  ; 
Where  swiftly  as  the  waters  flee, 

Each  wave  some  sweet  old  story  tells  ; 
And,  seated  hy  the  marhle  tank 

Which  sleeps  by  Ilium's  ruins  old, 
(The  fount  where  peerless  Helen  drank, 

And  Venus  laved  her  locks  of  gold,)  (b) 
I  thrill'd  such  classic  haunts  to  see, 
Yet  even  here  —  I  thought  of  thee 

I  thought  of  thee  —  I  thought  of  thee, 

Where  glide  the  Bosphor's  lovely  waters, 
All  palace-lined  from  sea  to  sea ; 

And  ever  on  its  shores  the^aughtcrs 
Of  the  delicious  East  are  seen, 

Printing  the  brink  with  slipper'd  feet ; 
And  oh,  the  snowy  folds  between. 

What  eyes  of  heaven  your  glances  meet ! 
Peris  of  light  no  fairer  be  — 
Yes  —  in  Stamboul  —  I  thought  of  thee. 

I've  thought  of  thee  —  I've  thought  of  thee, 

Through  change  that  teaches  to  forget; 
Thy  face  looks  up  from  every  sea, 

In  every  star  thine  eyes  are  set, 
Though  roving  beneath  Orient  skies. 

Whose  golden  beauty  breathes  of  rest ; 
I  envy  every  bird  that  flies 

Into  the  far  and  clouded  West : 
I  think  of  thee  —  I  think  of  thee  ! 
Oh,  dearest !  hast  thou  thought  of  me  ? 


NATHANIEL    P.    WILLIS. 


39 


THOUGHTS 

WHILE    MAKIXG   A    GRAVE    FOR    A   NEW-BORN    CHILD. 

Room,  gentle  flowers  !  my  child  would  pass  to  heaven ! 

Ye  look'd  not  for  her  yet  with  your  soft  eyes, 

O  watchful  ushers  at  Death's  narrow  door  ! 

But  lo  !  while  you  delay  to  let  her  forth, 

Angels,  beyond,  stay  for  her  !     One  long  kiss 

From  lips  all  pale  with  agony,  and  tears, 

Wrung  after  anguish  had  dried  up  with  fire 

The  eyes  that  wept*,  were  the  cup  of  life 

Held  as  a  welcome  to  her.     Weep  !   oh,  mother  ! 

But  not  that  from  this  cup  of  bitterness 

A  cherub  of  the  sky  has  turn'd  away. 


One  look  upon  thy  face  e  re  thou  depart  I 
My  daughter  !     It  is  soon  to  let  thee  go  ! 
My  daughter  !     With  thy  birth  has  gush'd  a  spring 
I  knew  not  of —  filling  my  heart  with  tears. 
And  turning  with  strange  tenderness  to  thee  — 
A  love  —  oh,  God !   it  seems  so  —  which  must  flow 
Far  as  thou  fleest,  and  'twixt  heaven  and  me. 
Henceforward,  be  a  bright  and  yearning  chain 
Drawing  me  after  thee  !     And  so,  farewell  I 
'Tis  a  harsh  world,  ia  which  aff"ection  knows 
No  place  to  treasure  up  its  loved  and  lost 
But  the  lone  grave. 


40  NATHANIEL   V.    WILLIS. 

Thou,  who  so  late  wast  sleeping 

Warm  iu  the  close  fold  of  a  mother's  heart, 

Scarce  from  her  breast  a  single  pulse  receiving, 

But  it  was  sent  thee  with  some  tender  thought, 

How  can  I  leave  thee,  here  !     Alas  —  for  man ! 

The  herb  in  its  humility  may  fall 

And  waste  into  the  bright  and  genial  air, 

While  we  —  by  hands  that  minister'd  in  life 

Nothing  but  love  to  us  —  arc  thrust  away, 

The  earth  thrown  in  upon  our  just  cold  bosoms, 

And  the  warm  sunshine  trodden  out  forever  ! 

Yet  have  I  chosen  for  thy  grave,  my  child, 
A  bank  where  I  have  lain  in  summer  hours  ! 
And  thought  how  little  it  would  seem  like  death 
To  sleep  amid  such  loveliness.     The  brook 
Tripping  with  laughter  down  the  rocky  steps 
That  lead  up  to  thy  bed,  would  still  trip  on, 
Breaking  the  dread  hush  of  the  mourners  gone ; 
The  birds  are  never  silent  that  build  here. 
Trying  to  sing  down  the  more  vocal  waters  : 
The  slope  is  beautiful  with  moss  and  flowers, 
And  far  below,  seen  under  arching  leaves. 
Glitters  tlie  warm  sun  on  the  village  spire, 
Pointing  the  living  after  thee. 

And  this  seems  like  a  comfort ;  and,  replacing  now 
The  flowers  that  have  made  room  for  thee,  I  go 
To  whisper  the  same  peace  to  her  who  lies  — 
Robb'd  of  her  child — and  lonely.     'Tis  the  work 
Of  many  a  dark  hour,  and  of  many  a  prayer, 
To  bring  the  heart  back  from  an  infant  gone. 


NATIIAiS^IEL    P.»  WILLIS.  4 1 

Hope  must  give  o'er,  and  busy  fancy  blot 

The  images  from  all  the  silent  rooms, 

And  every  sight  and  sound  familiar  to  her 

Undo  its  sweetest  link  —  and  so  at  last 

The  fountain  —  that,  once  struck,  must  flow  forever  — 

Will  hide  and  waste  in  silence.     When  the  smile 

Steals  to  her  pallid  lip  again,  and  Spring 

Wakens  its  buds  above  thee,  we  will  come, 

And,  standing  by  thy  music-haunted  grave, 

Look  on  each  other  cheerfully,  and  say  :  — 

A  child  that  we  have  loved  is  gone  to  heaven, 

And  by  this  gate  of  Jloioers  she  pass'd  aioay  ! 


FILIAL  LOVE. 

MoxHEK  !  dear  mother !  the  feeling  nurst 

As  I  hung  at  thy  bosom,  clung  round  thee  first. 

'Twas  the  earliest  link  in  love's  warm  chain ; 

'Tis  the  only  one  that  will  long  remain ; 

And  as,  year  by  year,  and  day  by  day. 

Some  friend  still  trusted  drops  away, 

Mother  !  dear  mother  !  oh,  dost  thou  see 

How  the  shorten'd  chain  brings  me  nearer  thee  ! 


•12  NATHANffiL    r.    WILLIS. 


THE  ANNOYER. 

Common  as  lij^lit  is  love, 
And  its  familiar  voicu  wearies  not  ever.— Shellet. 

Love  knoweth  every  form  of  air, 

And  every  shape  of  earth, 
And  comes,  unbidden,  everywhere, 

Like  thought's  mysterious  birth. 
The  moonlit  sea  and  the  sunset  sky 

Are  written  with  Love's  words, 
And  you  hear  his  voice  unceasingly, 

Like  song  in  the  time  of  birds. 

He  peeps  into  the  warrior's  heart 

From  the  tip  of  a  stooping  plume, 
And  the  serried  spears  and  the  many  naen 

May  not  deny  him  room. 
He'll  come  to  his  tent  in  the  weary  night, 

And  be  busy  in  his  dream  ; 
And  he'll  float  to  his  eye  in  morning  light 

Like  a  fay  on  a  silver  beam. 

He  hears  the  sound  of  the  hunter's  gun. 

And  rides  on  the  echo  back, 
And  sighs  in  his  ear,  like  a  stirring  leaf, 

And  flits  in  his  woodland  track. 
The  shade  of  the  wood,  and  the  sheen  of  the  river, 

The  cloud  and  the  open  sky  — 
He  will  haunt  them  all  with  his  subtle  quiver. 

Like  the  light  of  your  very  eye. 


NATHANIEL    P.    WILLIS.  43 

The  fisher  hangs  over  the  leaning  boat, 

And  ponders  the  silver  sea, 
For  love  is  under  the  surface  hid, 

And  a  spell  of  thought  has  he. 
He  heaves  the  wave  like  a  bosom  sweet. 

And  speaks  in  the  ripple  low, 
Till  the  bait  is  gone  from  the  crafty  line, 

And  the  hook  hangs  bare  below. 

He  blurs  the  print  of  the  scholar's  book. 

And  intrudes  in  the  maiden's  prayer. 
And  profanes  the  cell  of  the  holy  man, 

In  the  shape  of  a  lady  fair. 
In  the  darkest  night,  and  the  bright  daylight, 

In  earth,  and  sea,  and  sky. 
In  every  home  of  human  thought, 

Will  Love  be  lurking  nigh. 


44  NATHANIEL    P.    WILLIS. 


PARRHASIUS. 


IIow  like  a  mounlinj;  devil  in  the  heart 
Kules  the  unreined  ambition !  {c) 


*  Being  me  the  captive  now  ! 
My  hand  feels  skillful,  and  the  shadows  lift 
From  my  waked  spirit  airily  and  swift, 

And  I  could  paint  the  bow 
Upon  the  bended  heavens  —  around  me  play 
Colours  of  such  divinity  to-day. 

'  Ha  !  bind  him  on  his  back  ! 
Look  !  —  as  Prometheus  in  my  picture  here  ! 
Quick  —  or  he  faints  !  —  stand  with  the  cordial  near  ! 

Now  —  bend  him  to  the  rack  ! 
Press  down  the  poison'd  links  into  his  flesh  ! 
And  tear  agape  that  healing  wound  afresh ! 

'  So  —  let  him  writhe  !     How  long 
Will  he  live  thus  ?     Quick,  my  good  pencil,  now  ! 
What  a  fine  agony  works  upon  his  brow ! 

Ha  !  gray  hair'd,  and  so  strong  ! 
How  fearfully  he  stifles  that  short  moan  ! 
Gods  !  if  I  could  but  paint  a  dying  groan ! 


NATHANIEL    P.     WILLIS.  45 

'  Pity  thee  !     So  I  do  ! 
I  pity  the  dumb  victim  at  the  altar  —  ^ 

But  does  the  robed  priest  for  his  inty  falter  ? 

I'd  rack  thee  though  I  knew 
A  thousand  lives  were  perishing  in  thine  — 
What  were  ten  thousand  to  a  fame  like  mine  ? 


'  '  Hereafter ' !     Ay  —  hereafter  ! 
A  whip  to  keep  a  coward  to  his  track  ! 
What  gave  Death  ever  from  his  kingdom  back 

To  check  the  skeptic's  laughter  ? 
Come  from  the  grave  to-morrow  with  that  story  - 
And  I  may  take  some  softer  path  to  glory. 

'  No,  no,  old  man  !  we  die 
Even  as  the  flowers,  and  we  shall  breathe  away 
Our  life  upon  the  chance  wind,  even  as  they  ! 

Strain  Avell  thy  fainting  eye  — 
For  when  that  bloodshot  quivering  is  o'er, 
The  light  of  heaven  will  never  reach  thee  more. 


'  Yet  there's  a  deathless  7iame  ! 
A  spirit  that  the  smothering  vault  shall  spurn. 
And  like  a  steadfast  planet  mount  and  burn  — 

And  though  its  crown  of  flame 
Consumed  my  brain  to  ashes-  as  it  shone, 
By  all  the  fiery  stars  !  I'd  bind  it  on  ! 


46  NATHANIEL    P.    \\^LLIS. 


'  Ay  —  thougli  it  bid  me  rifle 
My  heart's  last  fount  for  its  insatiate  thirst  — 
Though  every  life-strung  nerve  be  madden'd  first- 

Thoufrh  it  should  bid  me  stifle 
The  yearning  in  my  throat  for  my  sweet  child, 
And  taunt  its  mother  till  my  brain  went  wild  — 


'  All  —  I  would  do  it  all  — 
Sooner  than  die,  like  a  dull  worm,  to  rot  — 
Thrust  foully  into  earth  to  be  forgot ! 

Oh  heavens  !  —  but  I  appal 
Your  heart,  old  man  !  forgive  —  ha  !    on  your  lives 
Let  him  not  faint !  —  rack  him  till  he   revives  ! 


'  Vain  —  vain —  give  o'er  !     His  eye 
Glazes  apace.     He  does  not  feel  you  now  — 
Stand  back  !     I'll  paint  the  death  dew  on  his  brow ! 

Gods !  if  he  do  not  die 
But  for  one  moment  —  one  —  till  I  eclipse 
Conception  with  the  scorn  of  those  calm  lips  ! 


'  Shivering  !     Hark  !  he  mutters 
Brokenly  now  —  that  was  a  difficult  breath  — 
Another  ?     Wilt  thou  never  come,  oh  Death  ! 

Look  !  how  his  temple  flutters  ! 
Is  his  heart  still  ?     Aha  !  lift  upl  his  head  ! 
He  shudders — gasps — Jove  help  him  ! — so — he's  dead.' 


NATHANIEL   P.    WILLIS.  47 


THE  BELFRY  PIGEON. 

On"  the  cross-beam  under  the  Old  South  bell 
The  nest  of  a  pigeon  is  builded  well. 
In  summer  and  winter  that  bird  is  there, 
Out  and  in  with  the  morning  air : 
I  love  to  see  him  track  the  street, 
With  his  wary  eye  and  active  feet ; 
And  I  often  watch  him  as  he  springs, 
Circling  the  steeple  with  easy  wings, 
Till  across  the  dial  his  shade  has  pass'd, 
And  the  belfry  edge  is  gain'd  at  last. 

'Tis  a  bird  I  love,  with  its  brooding  note, 

And  the  trembling  throb  in  its  mottled  throat ; 

There's  a  human  look  in  its  swelling  breast, 

And  the  gentle  curve  of  its  lowly  crest ; 

And  I  often  stop  with  the  fear  I  feel  — 

He  runs  so  close  to  the  rapid  wheel. 

Whatever  is  rung  on  that  noisy  bell  — 

Chime  of  the  hour  or  funeral  knell  — 

The  dove  in  the  belfry  must  hear  it  well. 

When  the  tongue  swings  out  to  the  midnight  moon- 

When  the  sexton  cheerly  rings  for  noon  — 

When  the  clock  strikes  clear  at  morning  light  — 

When  the  child  is  waked  with  '  nine  at  night '  — 

When  the  chimes  play  soft  in  the  Sabbath  air, 


48  NATHANIEL   P.    WILLIS. 

Filling  the  spirit  witli  tones  of  prayer  — 
Whatever  tale  in  the  bell  is  heard, 
He  broods  on  his  folded  feet  unstirr'd, 
Or,  rising  half  in  his  rounded  nest, 
He  takes  the  time  to  smooth  his  breast, 
Then  drops  again  with  filmed  eyes, 
And  sleeps  as  the  last  vibration  dies. 

Sweet  bird !  I  would  that  I  could  be 
A  hermit  in  the  crowd  like  thee  ! 
With  wings  to  fly  to  wood  and  glen, 
Thy  lot,  like  mine,  is  cast  with  men ; 
And  daily,  with  unwilling  feet, 
I  tread,  like  thee,  the  crowded  street ; 

But,  unlike  me,  when  day  is  o'er. 
Thou  canst  dismiss  the  Avorld  and  soar. 
Or,  at  a  half-felt  wish  for  rest, 
Canst  smooth  the  feathers  on  thy  breast, 
And  drop,  forgetful,  to  thy  nest. 


NATHANIEL    T.   WILLIS.  49 


TIRED  OF   PLAY. 

TO   A    PICTURE    OF    A    CHILD    AT    PLAY. 

Tired  of  play  !     Tired  of  play  ! 
What  hast  thou  done  this  livelong  day  ? 
The  birds  are  silent,  and  so  is  the  bee ; 
The  sun  is  creeping  up  steeple  and  tree  ; 
The  doves  have  flown  to  the  sheltering  eaves, 
And  the  nests  are  dark  with  the  drooping  leaves  ; 
Twilight  gathers,  and  day  is  done  — 
How  hast  thou  spent  it  —  restless  one  ? 

Playing  !     But  what  hast  thou  done  beside 
To  tell  thy  mother  at  eventide  ? 
"What  promise  of  morn  is  left  unbroken  ? 
What  kind  word  to  thy  playmate  spoken  ? 
Whom  hast  thou  pitied,  and  whom  forgiven? 
How  Avith  thy  faults  has  duty  striven  ? 
What  hast  thou  learn'd  by  field  and  hill, 
By  greenwood  path,  and  singing  rill  ? 

There  will  come  an  eve  to  a  longer  day, 
That  will  find  thee  tired  —  but  not  of  play  ! 
And  thou  wilt  lean  —  as  thou  leanest  now, 
With  drooping  limbs  and  aching  brow. 
And  wish  the  shadows  would  faster  creep, 
And  long  to  go  to  thy  quiet  sleep. 
Well  were  it  then  if  thine  aching  brow 
Were  as  free  from  sin  and  shame  as  now ! 


50  NATHANIEL    P.    WILLIS. 

Well  for  Ihee,  if  thy  lip  could  tell 
A  tale  like  this,  of  a  day  spent  well. 
If  thine  open  hand  had  relieved  distress  — 
If  thy  pity  had  sprung  to  wretchedness  — 
If  thou  hast  forgiven  the  sore  offence, 
And  humbled  thy  heart  with  penitence  — 
If  Nature's  voices  have  spoken  to  thee 
With  her  holy  meanings  eloquently  — 

If  every  creature  hath  won  thy  love, 

From  the  creeping  worm  to  the  brooding  dove  - 

If  never  a  sad,  low  spoken  word 

Hath  plead  with  thy  human  heart  unheard  — 

Then,  when  the  night  steals  on,  as  now, 

It  will  bring  relief  to  thine  aching  brow, 

And,  with  joy  and  peace  at  the  thought  of  rest, 

Thou  wilt  sink  to  sleep  on  thy  mother's  breast. 


NATHANIEL    P.    "WILLIS.  51 


APRIL. 


A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone, 

Half-hidden  from  the  eye, 
Fair  as  a  star  when  only  one 

Is  shining  in  the  sky. — "Wordsworth. 


I  HATE  found  violets  !     April  hatli  come  on, 
And  the  cool  winds  feel  softer,  and  the  rain 
Falls  in  the  beaded  drops  of  summer-time. 
You  may  hear  birds  at  morning  and  at  eve, 
The  tame  dove  lingers  till  the  twilight  falls, 
Cooing  upon  the  eaves,  and  drawing  in 
His  beautiful,  bright  neck ;  and,  from  the  hills, 
A  murmur  like  the  hoarseness  of  the  sea, 
Tells  the  release  of  waters,  and  the  earth 
Sends  up  a  pleasant  smell,  and  the  dry  leaves 
Are  lifted  by  the  grass ;  and  so   I  know 
That  Nature,  with  her  delicate  ear,  hath  heard 
The  dropping  of  the  velvet  foot  of  Spring. 
Take  of  my  violets  !     I  found  them  where 
The  liquid  south  stole  o'er  them,  on  a  bank 
That  lean'd  to  running  water.     There's  to  me 
A  daintiness  about  these  early  flowers, 
That  touches  me  like  poetry.     They  blow 
With  such  a  simple  loveliness  among 
The  common  herbs  of  pasture,  and  breathe  out 
Their  lives  so  unobtrusively,  like  hearts 
"VMiose  beatings  are  too  gentle  for  the  world. 
I  love  to  go  in  the  capricious  days 


NATHANIEL   T.    WILLIS. 


Of  April  and  hunt  violets,  when  the  rain 
Is  in  the  blue  cups  trembling,  and  they  nod 
So  gracefully  to  the  kisses  of  the  wind. 
It  may  be  decm'd  too  idle,  but  the  young 
Read  nature  like  the  manuscript  of  Heaven, 
And  call  the  flowers  its  poetry.     Go  out ! 
Ye  spirits  of  habitual  unrest, 
And  read  it,  when  the  '  fever  of  the  world  ' 
Hath  made  your  hearts  impatient,  and,  if  life 
Hath  yet  one  spring  unpoison'd,  it  will  be 
Like  a  beguiling  music  to  its  flow. 
And  you  will  no  more  wonder  that  I  love 
To  hunt  for  violets  in  the  April-time. 


TWILIGHT    MUSINGS. 

Beautiful  Evening!  my  bewildered  brain 

And  aching  bosom,  with  fond  orisons,  bless 

The  coming  of  thy  shadows— faint  with  pain,  {d) 

And  yearning  for  the  hours  of  quietness 

That  follow  the  twilight.    The  fair  morn 

Unfurls  o'er  Eastern  hills  her  dolphin  dyes; 

But  O  majestic  Eve,  to  thee  I  turn 

"With  heart  enchanted,  and  undazzled  eyes. 

Give  me  to  breathe  thy  fragrance.    Where  the  dews 

Clasp  with  their  delicate  arms  the  violet-bell. 

Give  me  to  wander  where  the  stream  dotli  choose 

Its  murmuring  journey  down  the  dim  green  dell 

With  chary  dainties.    There  would  1  bow 

Unto  thy  silver  glories,  as  before 

The  Persian  worshipped— with  a  better  vow, 

And  a  diviner  spirit,  than  of  yore. 

Then  grant  me  thy  communion.    Swell  my  soul 

With  the  sweet  awe  of  silence.    Look  on  me 

With  the  bright  stars  of  thy  resplendent  pole— 

And  let  me  learn  their  teachings.    I  shall  be 

A  worshipper  of  Heaven.    I  shall  dream 

Of  the  high  land  I  long  for.    I  shall  see 

The  stirring  of  the  myriad  palm-boughs  and  gleam 

Of  seraphs  pinions.    From  the  boundless  throng 

Of  the  unnumbered  holy,  I  shall  hear 

Faintly,  the  choral  anthem.    So  the  song 

Of  Ocean's  surges  falls  upon  the  ear 

Of  slumbering  mariner — and  so  the  bird 

That  loves  the  sombre  night,  o'er  the  far  wave  is  heard. 


BENJAMIN  BUSSEY  THATCHER 


DIED,  AGED  31  YEAKS. 


B.  B.  Thatcher  was  the  third  son  of  the  Hon,  Samuel  Thatcher, 
of  Bangor,  and  was  born  in  the  town  of  Warren,  on  the  eighth  day  of 
October,  1809.  He  received  liis  early  education  at  the  Warren  Acad- 
emy, and  entered  Bowdom  College,  one  year  in  advance,  at  the  age 
of  thu-teen  years,  and  graduated  vnth.  distmction,  in  1823.  A  short 
time  after  tliis,  he  became  a  student  in  the  law  office  of  Messrs. 
Hill  &  Starrett,  at  Bangor,  in  which  city  his  father  and  brother  resid- 
ed. He  remained  there  for  some  time,  and  then  removed  to  Boston, 
and  finished  his  law  studies  mth  the  Hon.  EHjah  Morse,  and  on  his 
admission  to  the  Suffolk  Bar,  became  associated  m  practice  with  Wil- 
Uam  Brigham,  Esq.  Wliile  residing  in  Bangor,  he  did  much  to- 
wards the  improvement  and  mental  culture  of  the  citizens,  by  the  es- 
tabHshment  of  a  "  Debatmg  Club,"  wliich  afterwards  became  merged 
into  a  "  Lyceum,"  and  was  the  means  of  contributing  much  to  the 
happmess  and  intellectual  improvement  of  its  members.  We  believe 
he  also,  in  connection,  established  a  literary  journal. 

Mr.  Thatcher  commenced  his  literary  career,  in  the  city  of  Bos- 
ton, as  a  contributor  to  the  leading  Magazines  and  Journals  then  pub- 
Ushed,  and  among  them  was  the  "  New-England  Magazine,"  to  which 
Longfellow,  Tuckerman,  Lowell,  Benjamin,  Holmes,  Emerson,  Win- 
throp,  and  other  distmguished  literary  men  contributed,  mth  whom 
he  was  an  associate.  His  only  pubUshed  works  are,  "  Indian  Biogra- 
phy," and  "  Lidian  Traits,"  although  at  his  death  he  left  a  large  amount 
of  manuscript  matter,  which  has  never  been  pubUshed.    He  spent  some 


56  BENJAMIN   B.    THATCHER. 

considerable  time  in  Europe,  and  prepared  extensive  notes  for  a  vol- 
ume of  Travels,  but  his  feeble  health  prevented  him  from  finishing  it 
before  his  death.  He  Avas  comiected  -with  the  "  Boston  Mercantile 
Journal,"  as  Editor,  Avhcn  first  established,  and  continued  as  such  un- 
til his  taiUng  health  obliged  liim  to  reHnquish  it.  He  was  also  con- 
nected with  other  Boston  journals,  in  different  capacities.  He  was  a 
gentleman  of  pleasing  manners,  and  highly  esteemed  by  his  friends 
for  his  Christian  character,  and  the  purity  of  his  talent. 

He  died  in  Boston,  on  the  fom-tcenth  day  of  July,  1840,  as  many 
others  have  done,  a  victim  to  an  unsatisfiable  desire  for  knowledge. 
This  sad  event  called  forth  a  very  handsome  tributary  poem  from  his 
old  class-mate  and  friend,  Isaac  INIcLellan,  Esq.,  wliich  we  here 
insert. 

Hark  !    the  funeral  bell  is  tolling — 

Calling  to  the  grave's  retreat! 
And  the  funeral  car  is  rolling 

Through  the  city's  crowded  street. 
Soon  the  damp  cold  earth  will  hold  thee 

In  its  dark  and  solemn  rest — 
Soon  the  grassy  turf  will  fold  thee 

Closely  to  its  heaving  breast. 

O'er  thy  pallid  brow  a  shadow 

From.the  wing  of  death  is  cast, 
From  thy  sparkling  eye  the  brightness 
,  That  illumined  it  hath  pass'd. 

May  the  green  grass  o'er  thee  sighing, 

Whisper  forth  its  tenderest  air; 
May  the  wild  birds  in  their  flying, 

Pour  their  mellowest  sorrows  there. 

Quenched  is  now  thy  studious  taper, 

And  thy  chair  holds  thee  no  more, 
For  the  scholar's  vigil's  ended  — 

His  task  is  done,  his  toil  is  o'er. 
The  spider  on  thy  shelf  is  weaving 

His  untouched  net  from  book  to  book. 
And  low  the  poet's  harp  ii  resting  — 

Neglected  in  his  favorite  nook. 

The  thoughtless  world  may  soon  forget  thee. 

But,  in  many  a  heart  thy  name 
Shall  keep  its  sweet  and  precious  perfume, 

In  bloom  and  freshness  still  the  same. 
O'er  Time's  wide  sands  the  rolling  billow 

May  dim  the  print  of  thy  career. 
Yet  Love  and  Memory  still  will  cherish 

For  thee  the  sacred  sigh  and  tear. 


BENJAMIN    B.    THATCHER.  57 


Classmate,  gentle  Classmate  1  fast 

The  dizzy  wheel  of  time  flies  round! 
Scarce  a  moment  doth  it  seem 

Since  thy  blushing  brow  was  bound 
With  the  cloistered  college  crown, 
Meekly  worn,  but  nobly  won. 
As  our  little  baud  departed, 

Pilgrims  from  our  classic  home, 
Joyous  each  and  happy-hearted, 

Through  life's  untried  scenes  to  roam, 
Little  wrecked  we  of  its  sorrow. 
Joy  to-day  and  grief  to-morrow! 
But  alas,  the  thorny  way 

Hath  entangled  many  feet. 
And  how  many  are  reposing 

Where  the  churchyard  tenants  meet! 
But  no  purer  name  than  thine 
Fills  the  tablet's  mournful  line. 

A^hes  to  ashes  —  dust  to  dust! 

'Tis  written  that  the  glowing  cheek 
In  its  youthful  bloom  must  fade. 

As  fades  the  rainbow's  painted  streak. 
The  silver  head,  the  locks  of  gold. 

The  reverend  sage,  the  humble  child. 
Must  vanish,  with  the  crumbling  mould 
In  rolling  hillock's  o'er  them  piled ! 

Gentle  Pilgrim— fare  thee  well  I 

In  thy  dewj'  morn  of  day. 
Yielding  scrip  and  staff  and  shell, 

Thou  hast  fainted  by  the  way ! 
All  who  fill  this  vast  procession. 

Travelling  down  the  vale  of  tears, 
Will  be  shortly  sleeping  with  thee. 

Vexed  no  more  with  toils  and  lears. 

The  editor  of  the  "  Boston  Mercantile  Journal,"  pays  the  follow- 
ing tribute  to  his  superior  talent,  and  high  Christian  character,  in  an 
obituarj'  notice  of  his  death.  The  editor  of  "  the  Xew-York  Jom-nal 
of  Commerce,"  of  wliich  Mr.  Thatcher  ■^•as  a  con-espondent,  paid  him- 
a  like  worthy  tribute. 

"  Mr.  Thatcher  is  "weU  known  in  this  country  and  in  Europe,  for 
his  scientific  and  literary  attairanents — and  wherever  kno-mi  has  been 
respected  and  loved  for  his  kind  disposition,  and  his  high  moral  qual- 
ities, as  well  as  for  the  great  variety  of  knowledge  wliich  he  was  mas- 
ter of — and  the  amiouncement  of  liis  death  -NriU  carry  sadness  to  many 


58  BENJAMIN    B.    THATCHER. 

• 

a  heart.  He  was  educated  to  the  profession  of  the  law,  but  his  great 
aim  through  Hfe  appears  to  have  been  to  acquire  knowledge,  and  to 
diffuse  it  abroad  for  the  purpose  of  enlightening,  elevating  and  ini- 
l)roving  the  human  race.  For  several  years  past  he  has  devoted  liim- 
self  exclusively  to  literary  pursuits— and  if  his  career,  by  a  Avise  Prov- 
idence, had  not  been  abridged,  he  would  have  been  sur2)assed  by  few 
of  liis  countrjnnen  in  rendering  true  service  to  his  country — and 
Avould  have  acquired  a  fame  to  endure  for  ages.  Many  of  liis  writings 
are  before  the  world — they  bear  the  stamp  of  worth,  and  have  been 
read  with  much  interest  in  tliis  country  and  Europe — and  he  has 
doubtless  left  many  important  manuscripts,  wliich,  it  is  to  be  hoped, 
his  fi-iends  will  give  the  public  at  some  future  day.  Mr.  Thatcher 
was  at  one  time  editor  of  this  paper — and  since  it  has  been  committed 
to  our  care,  the  columns  have  frequently  been  enriched  by  his  contri- 
butions— and  in  liis  death  we  lose  "  a  friend,  faithful  and  just."  It  is 
now  nearly  two  years  since  he  returned  from  Em'ope,  where  he  had 
passed  many  months,  in  travel,  and  in  studjing  the  manners  and  char- 
acteristics of  the  inhabitants — cliiefly  in  Great  Britam.  He  was  there 
attacked  mth  a  chronic  affection  of  the  stomach — and  on  his  return  to 
this  country,  he  suffered  much  from  ill  health.  Since  then,  he  has 
been  gradually  decHning — but  he  has  never  neglected  his  literary  pm-- 
suits,  or  liis  accustomed  exercise  of  walking,  until  within  a  fcAV  days. 
He  was  conscious  of  the  ajiproach  of  death,  which  at  last  came  upon 
him  suddenly — but  he  met  the  grim  king  of  terrors  like  a  Christian 
pliilosopher — and  his  last  moments  Avere  soothed  by  the  benignant  sjiirit 
of  Religion.  The  death  of  B.  B.  Thatcher  has  left  a  blank  in  society 
that  will  not  be  easily  fiUed." 


BENJAMIN    B,    THATCHER. 


59 


\ 


THE  BIRD  OF  THE  BASTILE. 

Come  to  my  breast,  thou  lone 

And  weary  bird  (e)  !  —  one  tone 
Of  the  rare  music  of  my  childhood  !  —  dear 

Is  that  strange  sound  to  me  ; 

Dear  is  the  memory 
It  brings  my  soul  of  many  a  parted  year. 


Again,  yet  once  again, 

O  minstrel  of  the  main ! 
Lo  !  festal  face  and  form  familiar  throng 

Unto  my  waking  eye  ; 

And  voices  of  the  sky 
Sing  from  the  walls  of  death  unwonted  song. 
• 

Nay,  cease  not  —  I  would  call, 

Thus,  from  the  silent  hall 
Of  the  unlighted  grave,  the  joys  of  old  : 

Beam  on  me  yet  once  more, 

Ye  blessed  eyes  of  yore, 
Startling  life-blood  through  all  my  being  cold. 

Ah!  cease  not — phantoms   fair 

Fill  thick  the  dungeon's  air  ; 
They  wave  me  from  its  gloom  —  I  fly  —  I  stand 

Again  upon  that  spot, 

Which  ne'er  hath  been  forgot 
In  all  time's  tears,  my  own  green,  glorious  land  ! 


60  BENJAMIN    B.     THATCHER. 

There,  on  each  noon-bright  hill, 

By  fount  and  flashing  rill, 
Slowly  the  faint  flocks  sought  the  breezy  shade  ; 

There  gleam'd  the  sunset's  fire. 

On  the  tall  taper  spire, 
And  Avindows  low,  along  the  upland  glade. 

Sing,  sing  !  —  I  do  not  dream  — 

It  is  my  own  blue  stream, 
Far,  far  below,  amid  the  balmy  vale  ;  — 

I  know  it  by  the  hedge 

Of  rose-trees  at  its  edge. 
Vaunting  their  crimson  beauty  to  the  gale : 

There,  there,  mid  clust'ring  leaves, 
Glimmer  my  father's  eaves, 
And  the  worn  threshold  of  my  youth  beneath ;  — 
I  know  them  by  the  moss. 
And  the  old  elms  that  toss 

Their  lithe  arms  up  where  winds  the  smoke's  gray  wreath. 

• 

Sing,  sing  !  —  I  am  not  mad  — 

Sing  !  that  the  visions  glad 
May  smile  that  smiled,  and  sjieak  that  spake  but  now  ;  — 

Sing,  sing  !  — I  might  have  knelt 

Andpray'd;  I  might  have  felt 
Their  breath  upon  my  bosom  and  my  brow. 

I  might  have  press'd  to  this 

Cold  bosom,  in  my  bliss. 
Each  long  lost  form  that  ancient  hearth  beside ; 

O  heaven !  I  might  have  heard, 

From  living  lips,  one  word, 
Thou  mother  of  my  childhood,  —  and  have  died. 


BENJAMIN    B.    THATCHER.  61 

Nay,  nay,  'tis  sweet  to  weep, 

Ere  yet  in  death  I  sleep ; 
It  minds  me  I  have  been,  and  am  again,  — 

And  the  world  wakes  around  ; 

It  breaks  the  madness  bound. 
While  I  have  dream'd,  those  ages,  on  my  brain. 

And  sweet  it  is  to  love 

Even  this  gentle  dove, 
This  breathing  thing  from  all  life  else  apart :  — 

Ah  !  leave  me  not  the  gloom 

Of  my  eternal  tomb 
To  bear  alone  —  alone  !  —  come  to  my  heart, 

My  bird  !  —  Tlwxi  shalt  go  free  ; 

And  come,  O  come  to  me 
Again,  when  from  the  hills  the  spring-gale  blows  ; 

So  shall  I  learn,  at  least. 

One  other  year  hath  ceased, 
And  the  long  woe  throbs  lingering  to  its  close. 


02  BENJAMIN    1?.    TIIATCIIEK. 


AVEEP  NOT  FOR  THE  DEAD. 

Oh,  lightly,  liglitly  tread 
Upon  these  early  ashes,  ye  that  weep 
For  her  that  slumbers  in  the  dreamless  sleep. 

Of  this  eternal  bed ! 

Hallow  her  humble  tomb 
With  your  kind  sorrow,  ye  that  knew  her  well, 
And  climbed  with  her  youth's  brief  but  brilliant  dell, 

'Mid  sunlight  and  fair  bloom. 

Glad  voices  whispered  round 
As  from  the  stars,  —  bewildering  harmonies,  — 
And  visions  of  sweet  beauty  filled  the  skies, 

And  the  wide  vernal  ground 

With  hopes  like  blossoms  shone  : 
Oh,  vainly  these  shall  glow,  and  vainly  wreathe 
Verdure  for  the  veiled  bosom,  that  may  breathe 

^0  joy  —  Jio  answering  tone. 

Yet  weep  not  for  the  dead 
That  in  the  glory  of  green  youth  do  fall, 
Ere  phrenzied  passion  or  foul  sin  one  thrall 

Upon  their  souls  hath  spread. 


BENJAMIN    B.    THATCHER.  63 

Weep  not !     They  are  at  rest 
From  misery,  and  madness,  and  all  strife. 
That  makes  but  night  of  day,  and  death  of  life, 

In  the  grave's  peaceful  breast. 

Nor  ever  more  shall  come 
To  them  the  breath  of  envy,  nor  the  rankling  eye 
Shall  follow  them,  where  side  by  side  they  lie  — 

Defenceless,  noiseless,  dumb. 

Aye  —  though  their  memory's  green. 
In  the  fond  heart,  where  love  for  them  was  born, 
With  sorrow's  silent  dews,  each,  eve,  each  morn, 

Be  freshly  kept,  unseen  — 

Yet  weep  not !     They  shall  soar 
As  the  freed  eagle  of  the  skies,  that  pined, 
But  pines  no  more,  for  his  own  mountain  wind, 

And  the  old  ocean-shore. 

Rejoice  !  rejoice  !     How  long 
Should  the  faint  spirit  wrestle  with  its  clay, 
Fluttering  in  vain  for  the  far  cloudless  day, 

And  for  the  an2:el's  song;  ? 

It  mounts  !  it  mounts  !     Oh,  spread 
The  banner  of  gay  victory  —  and  sing 
For  the  enfranchised  —  and  bright  garlands  bring  — 

But  weep  not  for  the  dead  ! 


64  BENJAMIN    B.    THATCHER. 


I  WILL  REMEMBER  THEE. 

I  WILL  remember  thee  ;  thy  form  will  be 

Mingled  with  lingering  images  of  all 
That  gave  those  lost  hours  wings  of  bliss  to  me, 

When,  arm  and  arm,  we  wandered  where  the  fall 
Of  this,  thy  river's  radiant  fountains  made 
The  sunset-silence  musical,  under  its  fringing  shade. 

I  will  remember  thee,  with  loveliest  bloom 

Of  early  roses,  such  as  these  thy  hand 
Culled  for  me  in  the  grave-yard's  flowery  gloom, 

(Where  rest  thy  sister's  ashes,  in  the  land 
Of  dark  and  long  oblivion  ;)  likest  thee, 
Their  bursting,  blushing  charms,  and  therefore  dear  to  me. 

I  will  remember  thee,  when  woods,  as  now, 
O'ershadow  me  at  noontide  ;    and  the  sweet 

Breathings  of  virgin  violets,  as  pure  as  thou, 

No  purer,  from  dim  moss-banks  of  the  hill-side  greet 

Me  in  the  weary  wanderings,  'mid  the  trees 

Of  mine  own  father-clime  —  to  'mind  me  but  of  these. 

I'll  think  of  thee  with  streamlets  ;   and  green  leaves 
Shall  murmur  of  thee  ;  and  the  fairest  star 

That  shines  above  me,  as  mild  evening  weaves 
Her  round  pavilion  in  its  splendor  —  far, 

But  not  forgotten  —  will  I  sadly  choose 

To  link  with  thoughts  of  thee,  when  most  I  love  to  muse. 


BENJAMIN    B.    THATCHER.  65 

I  will  remember  thee,  in  coming  days, 

When  I  may  tread  the  stranger's  lonely  shore, 

And  ponder  upon  old  temples  in  the  haze 

Of  twilight  —  where  the  mighty  are  no  more  — 

(Though  still  the  soil  teems  richly  with  the  pride 

Of  buried  greatness,  and  the  skies  are  dyed 

With  hues  of  gone-down  glory  :)  even  then, 

And  there,  the  memory  of  the  loveliness 
That. cheered  this  solitude,  may  cheer  again  — 

The  echo  of  past  pleasure  —  and  thy  grace 
Bless  me  in  all  things ;   lady,  on  the  sea 
Or  land,  in  joy  or  anguish,  I'll  remember  thee  ! 


66  BENJAMIN    1$.    THATCHER. 


TO  A  SISTER 

EMBARKING   ON  A    MISSIONARY    ENTERPRISE. 

«     i:-     *     Thou  knowest  well 
The  work  that  is  before  thee,  and  the  joys 
That  arc  behind.     Now,  be  the  past  forgot  — 
The  youthful  love,  the  hearth-light  and  the  home, 
Song,  dance,  and  story,  and  the  vows  —  the  vows 
That  we  change  not,  and  part  not  unto  death  — 
Yea,  all  the  spirit  of  departed  bliss, 
That  even  now,  like  spirits  of  the  dead, 
Seen  dimly  in  the  living  mourner's  dreams, 
And  thrilling,  ever  and  anon,  the  notes 
Long  loved  of  old  —  0,  hear  them,  heed  them  not. 
Press  on  I    for,  like  the  fairies  of  the  tale, 
That  mocked,  unseen,  the  tempted  traveller, 
With  power  alone  o'er  those  who  gave  them  ear, 
They  would  but  turn  thee  from  thy  high  resolve. 
Then  look  not  back  !   O,  triumph  in  the  strength 
Of  an  exalted  purpose  !  Eagle-like, 
Press  sunward  on.     Thou  shalt  not  be  alone. 
Have  but  an  eye  on  God,  as  surely  God 
Will  have  an  eye  on  thee  —  press  on!  press  on  ! 


TO  MY  MOTHER. 

My  Mother!  lam  far  away 

From  liome,  and  love,  andthce; 

And  stranger  hands  will  heap  the  clay 

That  soon  may  cover  me; 

Yet  we  shall  meet — perhaps  not  here, 

But  in  yon  shining,  azure  sphere  : 

And  if  there's  aught  assures  me  more, 

Ere  yet  my  spirit  fly, 

That  heaven  has  mercy  still  in  store, 

For  such  a  wretch  as  1, 

'Tis  that  a  heart  so  good  as  thine, 

Must  bleed  —  must  burst  along  with  mine. 

And  life  is  short  at  best,  and  Time 
Must  soon  prepare  the  tomb ; 
And  there  is  sure  a  happier  clime. 
Beyond  this  world  of  gloom -^ 
And  should  it  be  my  happy  lot — 
After  a  life  of  care  and  pain. 
In  sadness  spent,  or  spent  in  vain — 
To  go  where  sighs  and  sin  are  not — 
'Twill  make  the  half  my  heaven  to  be, 
My  Mother,  evermore  with  thee ! 


ELIJAH  PARISH  LOVEJOY 


DIED  AGED  35  YEARS. 

E.  P.  Lo^TJOT  was  the  eldest  son  of  the  late  Rev,  Daniel  Love- 
joy,  of  Albion,  Kennebec  County,  a  man  of  unspotted  piety,  and 
highly  respected  for  his  arduous  labors  in  the  diffusion  of  the  gospel 
throughout  the  then  -wdlderness  part  of  Maine.  His  son  Elijah,  was 
born  in  that  to^^^l,  on  the  nuith  of  November,  1802.  At  a  very  early 
age  he  displayed  a  determined  resoluteness  and  firmness  that  do  doubt, 
in  after  years,  was  the  true  cause  of  his  death.  He  was  eager  for 
for  knowledge,  and  spent  all  of  his  spare  moments  in  study,  and  but 
few  young  men  in  the  State  have  ever  made  more  rapid  progress  than 
did  he.  His  preparatory  education  was  received  at  the  Monmouth 
and  Cliina  Academies,  and  he  entered  "\Vater^•ille  College,  as  a  Sopho- 
more, in  1828,  his  expenses  while  there,  being  defrayed,  mostly,  by 
that  good  and  benevolent  Christian,  Rev.  Dr.  Tajjpan,  of  Augusta. 
Before  entering  College,  he  e^inced  considerable  poetic  talent,  and 
Avrote  some  very  creditable  verses.  On  graduatmg,  in  1826,  he  re- 
ceived the  first  honors  of  his  class,  and  pronounced  a  poem  before  it> 
entitled  "  Inspu-ation  of  the  Muse,"  a  portion  of  which  we  have  includ- 
ed in  our  selections.  In  a  letter  to  his  brother,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Chaplin, 
President  of  the  College,  says  of  his  talent,  "  In  regard  to  the  intel- 
lectual poAvers  of  your  deceased  brother,  I  do  not  hesitate  to  say,  that 
they  were  of  a  superior  order.  He  seems  to  me  to  have  apjiroached 
very  near  the  ranlv  of  those  distinguished  men  who  have  been  honor- 
ed with  the  title  of  universal  geniuses.  During  liis  collegiate  course 
he  appeared  to  have  an  almost  equal  adaptation  of  mind  to  the  various 


lO  ELIJAH    P.    LOVEJOY. 


branches  of  science  and  literature,  usually  studied  at  our  seminaries  of 
learning ;  and,  what  is  more,  he  took  hold  of  each  -with  giant  strength. 
It  Avas  my  lot  to  hear  liis  class  in  Grcelc  and  in  metaphysics,  and  I 
wtll  remember  that  in  botli  these  departments  of  knoM'ledge,  he  ap- 
peared to  great  advantage  at  the  daily  recitations,  and  also  at  the  ex- 
amination of  his  class  before  the  board  of  visitors.  I  think  he  was 
itvthcr  more  fond  of  languages  and  polite  literature,  than  of  intellectu- 
al philosophy  and  the  exact  sciences.  In  the  latter,  however,  he  ac- 
quitted liimself  in  a  highly  creditable  manner." 

During  the  fall  of  1827,  Mr.  Lovejoy  removed  to  the  far 
"West,  and  engaged  in  tcachuig  at  St.  Louis.  He  remained  at  this 
place,  and  in  the  -vicinity,  employing  his  time  in  teaching  and  editing 
a  pa})er,  for  nearly  five  years,  when,  becoming  converted,  he  removed 
to  Princeton,  N.  J.,  where  he  entered  upon  a  course  of  study  in  the 
Theological  Semmar}-,  to  prepare  himself  for  the  ministry ;  and  dm-ing 
the  foUomng  year,  was  licensed  to  jircach,  by  tlie  Second  Presbytery 
of  Pluladelphia.  In  the  svmimcr  of  1833,  he  preached  temporarily,  at 
Ne'wi)ort,  R.  I.,  and  in  the  Spring-street  Church,  New-York  city.  He 
soon  after  returned  again  to  St.  Louis,  and  commenced  the  publication 
of  the  '  St.  Louis  Observer,'  a  Avcekly  journal  devoted  to  Religion. 
He  conducted  this  paper  for  nearly  two  years,  when,  omng  to  the  pub- 
lication of  a  severe  editorial  article  on  Slavery,  a  mob  was  created, 
who,  during  his  absence  from  the  city,  threatened  the  destruction  of 
the  office,  but  Averc  prevented  by  the  proprietors,  Avho,  -with  praise- 
worth)-  discretion,  promised  that  no  more  such  articles  should  ai)pear 
in  its  columns.  Mr.  Lovejoy,  however,  on  his  return,  in  reply  to  a 
petition  from  the  peo^jle,  refused  to  be  controlled  by  public  sentiment, 
declaring  his  determination  to  defend  the  freedom  of  the  press.  Tlie 
excitement  not  subsiding,  a  meeting  of  the  citizens  was  called,  and 
resolutions  passed,  asking  Mr.  Lovejoy  to  refrain  from  publisliing  any 
thing  upon  slavery  that  would  contmue  tlie  present,  or  raise  another 
excitement.  To  these  resolutions  he  replied  at  great  length,  still 
maintainmg  liis  right  to  free  expression  of  opinion.  By  pm-suing  tliis 
detei-mmed  coiurse,  he  was  obliged  to  remove  from  the  city  to  escape 
the  vengeance  of  the  mob. 

In  Jime  1836,  he  removed  liis  press  to  Alton,  111.,  where  it  was 
destroyed  soon  after  being  landed.  I  le  procured  another  one,  and 
continued  the  publication  of  the  '  Observer ; '  but  had  been  establish- 


ELIJAH     r.    LOVEJOY. 


ed  here  only  a  short  time,  -when  similar  articles  to  those  jiublished  in 
St.  Louis,  created  another  mob,  and  a  meetmg  Avas  held  by  the  citi- 
zens of  Alton,  Avho  23i.u'sued  a  similar  com-se  to  those  of  St.  Louis,  and 
■with  the  same  success.  On  ]Mr.  Lovejoy's  expressing  his  determina- 
tion to  continue  to  write  against  slavery,  the  office  of  the  '  Observer' 
Avas  destroyed  by  the  mob.  Still  undamited,  by  the  assistance  of  his 
fi-iends,  he  jnuxhased  another  press,  -vvliich,  like  the  first,  was  destroy- 
ed by  a  mob,  before  it  Avas  put  up,  and  while  defenduig  it,  Mr.  Love- 
joy  was  fired  at,  and  exclaiming,  "  Oh  God,  I  am  shot,  I  am  shot,"  he 
exphed  mstantly.  This  sad  event  occurred  dmiiig  the  night  of  the 
seventh  of  November,  1837.  He  was  biu-ied  on  his  thirty-fifth  birth 
day,  and  left  a  ■wife  and  one  little  boy  to  mom-n  his  tragic  death. 
]\Ieetings  were  called  in  all  parts  of  the  country,  at  which  his  mm-der- 
ers  were  strongly  denomiced,  also  by  the  leading  journals. 

"We  have  been  furnished  with  the  folio-wing  account  of  meetings 
held  at  Belfest  and  Bangor  : 

"  In  Belfast,  a  public  meeting  was  held  on  the  evenhig  of  Nov. 
30th,  at  wliich  Hon.  Al&'cd  Johnson,  was  Chau'man,  and  B.  P.  Field, 
jr.  Secretary.  The  follomng  resolutions  were  reported,  and  after  dis- 
cussion, were  mianimously  adopted : 

Resolved^  That  in  pursuance  of  the  public  notice  which  called 
this  meeting,  we  have  assembled,  not  as  men  of  any  party,  civil  or  re- 
Hgious,  but  on  the  broad  ground  of  American  citizenship,  to  pass  res- 
olutions in  regard  to  the  topics-specified,  as  truth  and  the  good  of  om- 
country  may  in  om*  estimation  demand. 

Resolved,  That  the  Eev.  E.  P.  Lovejoy,  a  highly  respected  citi- 
zen, recently  of  this  State,  who  was  on  the  7th  inst.  assassinated  by 
a  mob,  at  Alton,  in  IlHnois,  in  consequence  of  an  attempt  on  his  part 
to  protect  his  property,  liberty  and  life,  when  no  legal  protection  could 
be  obtained — has  fallen  a  martvr  in  defence  of  rights  M'liich  are  guar- 


anteed to  every  fi-eeman  by  the  Constitutions  of  the  General  and  State 
Governments ;  rights  of  which  oiu-  country  has  made  her  highest 
boast,  and  Avhich  are  dear  to  every  American  citizen. 

At  a  special  meetmg  of  the  Bangor  '  Anti-Slavery  Society,'  held 
Nov.  27th,  1837,  the  folloA^ing  preamble  and  resolution  were  adopted : 

"Whereas,  the  late  Eev.  E.  P.  Lovejoy,  of  Alton,  111,  was  a  native 
of  this  State,  his  aged  and  excellent  mother  and  other  members  of 
the  fomily  bemg  still  resident  m  our  Aicinity,  and  well  kno-mi  to  at 
least  many  of  us —  ^ 


Resolved,  That  in  our  judgment,  he  -was  an  intelligent,  talented, 
u])right,  noble-hearted  man ;  a  sincere  and  consistent  Christian  ;  an 
able,  independent,  and  faithful  minister  of  the  gosjjel ;  a  bold,  uncom- 
promising enemy  of  oppression  in  all  its  I'orms  ;  a  self-sacrificing  friend 
and  defender  of  civil  and  religious  hberty,  of  truth  and  righteousness, 
Avhose  name  and  -whose  virtues  deserve  to  be  embalmed  in  the  memory 
of  every  friend  of  God  and  man." 

A  work,  containing  his  life,  letters,  poems,  and  a  liistory  of  the 
riots,  was  published  by  liis  brothers,  in  1838,  and  from  the  introduction 
to  it,  written  by  the  Hon.  John  Quincy  Adams,  we  make  the  following 
extract : — 

"  That  an  American  citizen,  in  a  State  whose  Constitution  repu- 
diates all  Slavery,  should  die  a  martyr  in  defence  of  the  freedom  of  the 
press,  is  a  phenomenon  in  the  history  of  tliis  Union.  It  forms  an  era, 
in  the  progress  of  mankind  towards  universal  emancipation.  Martyr- 
dom was  said  by  Dr.  Johnson,  to  be  the  only  test  of  sincerity  in  re- 
ligious behef.  It  is  also  the  ordeal  through  which  all  great  improve- 
ments ill  the  condition  of  men,  are  doomed  to  ])ass.  The  incidents 
which  i)receded  and  accomjjanicd,  and  followed  the  catastrophe  of  ]\Ir. 
Lovtjoy's  death,  point  it  out  as  an  epoch  in  the  annals  of  human  lib- 
erty. They  have  given  a  shock  as  of  an  earthquake,  throughout  this 
continent,  which  Mill  be  felt  in  the  most  distant  regions  of  the  earth. 
They  have  insi)u-ed  an  interest  in  the  public  mind,  which  extends  al- 
ready to  the  life  and  character  of  the  sufferer,  and  which  it  is  beHeved 
v\ill  abide  while  ages  pass  away.  To  record  and  preserve  for  posteri- 
ty, the  most  interesting  occurrences  of  his  life,  has  been  considered  an 
obhgation  of  duty,  sijecially  incumbent  upon  the  surviving  members  of 
liis  family,  and  in  the  effusions  of  his  owti  mmd,  and  the  characteristic 
features  of  his  famiUar  correspondence,  the  reader  v\'ill  find  the  most 
effective  portraitm-e  of  the  first  American  Martyr  to  the  fi-eedom  of 
the  press,  and  the  fi-eedom  of  the  slave." 


ELIJAH     P.    LOVEJOY. 


INSPIRATIONS  OF  THE  ]\1USE. 

Who  has  not  felt,  when  life's  dull  stream  was  low, 
When  hope  had  fled,  and  pleasure  waned  to  wo  ; 
When  all  within  was  dreary,  dark,  and  wild  — 
On  feeling's  ruins  sat  despair,  and  smiled  — 
And  like  the  shadows  by  the  moonbeams  thrown 
On  chilly  waters,  faint  and  cold  it  shone ; 
Who  has  not  felt  the  melting  charm  that  stole 
Like  healing  virtue  o'er  the  stricken  soul. 
When  some  fair  hand  the  trembling  lyre  had  swept. 
And  Avakcd  the  Muse,  that  lingered  there  and  slept ; 
Her  magic  charms,  her  tones  so  sweetly  given, 
They  tell  like  dreams  which  Gabriel  brings  from  heaven. 
And,  on  the  cold,  cold  regions  of  the  breast. 
Come  warm  with  life  in  visions  of  the  blest. 
The  frozen  heart  which  never  felt  before, 
Dissolves  in  grief  and  smiles  its  mis'ry  o'er, 
And  as  it  weeps  the  obscuring  clouds  away, 
Hope  gilds  the  tear  Avith  sunshine's  softest  ray ; 
Peace  o'er  the  tempest  throws  its  rainbow  charms, 
Sure  pledge  of  joy,  yet  timid  from  alarms: 
The  enchanting  prospect  opens  wide  and  clear, 
When  Beauty  blushes  where  the  loves  appear ! 
0  who  that  has  not  proudly  counted  o'er 
Such  hours  enshrined  in  Mem'ry's  choicest  store, 
When,  as  the  dream  of  life  was  flitting  by. 
They  flashed  in  Brightness  on  the  sufl"'rer's  eye ; 
7 


And  left  their  marks  transcribed  upon  his  soul, 

Unsullied  pages  in  life's  gloomy  scroll : 

Gently  they  spoke  in  silver  notes  of  bliss, 

As  if  heav'n  stooped  to  whisper  words  of  peace. 

So  can  the  Muse  enchant  the  yielding  heart, 

New  hopes,  new  pleasures,  and  new  joys  impart ; 

When  meek  and  mild,  she  comes  in  tenderness. 

To  sooth  our  sorrows,  and  our  comforts  bless, 

And  smiles  as  love  smiles  o'er  the  bed  of  death. 

Or  bends  like  hope  to  catch  the  parting  breath ; 

But  if,  with  all  her  gorgeous  drap'ry  on, 

She  strikes  the  note  that  glory  rides  upon  — 

With  hues  of  grandeur  deep  around  her  thrown, 

And  stately  mien  that  Virtue's  self  might  own  — 

'Tis  then  she  kindles  in  th'  expanding  soul 

Desires  immortal,  thoughts  above  control. 

She  chants  her  death-song  o'er  the  hero's  grave, 

Each  arm  is  mighty  and  each  coward  brave  ; 

And  when  the  untamed  victor  of  the  fight, 

Prepared  to  use  the  vengeance  of  his  might. 

Witness,  Euripides,  and  Homer,  thou. 

How  oft  her  strains  have  smoothed  the  angry  brow ; 

Loosed  from  his  hands  the  pris'ner's  slavish  chain, 

And  bade  the  captive  be  a  man  again. 

She  strikes  the  chords  that  round  her  heart  entwine, 

And  warm  responses  breathe  on  ev'ry  line. 

The  mind,  awakened  by  the  burning  strain. 

Starts  in  a  flight  which  seraphs  scarce  can  gain : 

Bursts  from  its  mortal  shroud  and  soars  away. 

And  basks  and  revels  in  unclouded  day  ; 

Leaves  earth's  dull  scenes  with  all  its  cares  and  woes, 

Mounts  into  light,  and  kindles  as  it  goes ! 


ELIJAH    P.    LOYEJOY.  75 

Oh  !  there  are  moments  when  the  wing^ed  mind. 

Free  and  unshackled  as  the  viewless  wind, 

In  full  poetic  pride  goes  gloriously 

With  cherubim  in  concert  up  the  sky  ; 

Counts  ev'ry  planet  as  it  rolls  away 

In  bold  relief  into  eternity  ! 

Joins  the  full  choir  which  sings  along  the  spheres, 

Among  the  star-crowned  circles  of  the  years ! 

In  strains  that  e'en  the  Eternal  stoops  and  hears  ! 

Or  vent'rous  soars  above  the  thrice-arched  sky, 

And  bends  exulting  through  infinity. 

In  that  vast  space  Avhere  unknown  sunbeams  sleep, 

Or  hidden  stars  their  glorious  night-watch  keep ; 

Whose  light  still  trav'ling  since  time  first  began, 

Through  the  immense,  has  never  shone  on  man  — 

In  those  far  regions,  where  no  baleful  beam 

Shoots  on  the  soul  its  dark  and  vap'ry  gleam ; 

Where  sinless  angels  play  along  the  air. 

And  hymn  their  loves,  or  bend  in  holy  pray'r ; 

Here  can  the  mind  expatiate  unrestrained 

O'er  beauties  such  as  fancy  never  feigned  ; 

Or  higher  still,  bow  at  th'  Eternal  shrine. 

Where  seraphim  with  veiled  faces  shine  ! 

Nay  lift  the  curtain  from  before  the  throne, 

And  gaze  with  wond'ring  awe  upon  the  Great  Unknown ! 

So  once  in  Eden's  ground,  that  blissful  scene, 

Where  fear  was  not,  for  guilt  had  not  yet  been, 

Man  sought  the  temple  where  his  Maker  trod. 

And  fearless  held  communion  with  his  God. 

Surely,  if  heav'nly  wisdom  e'er  designed 

One  peerless  gift  in  mercy  to  mankind. 

One  noble  proof  in  the  creative  plan, 


76  ELIJAH    r.    LOVEJOY. 

Which  stamps  his  high  original  on  man  ; 

'Tis  that  poetic  fire  which  bids  him  rise, 

And  claim  his  home,  his  kindred  in  the  skies  ; 

Which  rides  in  safety  o'er  life's  troublous  storms, 

And  smiles  on  death  in  all  its  untried  forms. 

'Tis  a  mysterious  ardor  none  can  tell, 

And  which  but  few  of  favored  mortals  feel; 

An  emanation  from  the  Deity, 

That  claims  and  proves  its  immortality ; 

A  part  of  being  subtle  and  refined. 

The  pure  and  hallowed  element  of  mind ; 

A  flame  which  burns  amidst  the  darkest  gloom, 

Shines  round  thg  grave,  and  kindles  in  the  tomb. 

When  fainting  nature  trembles  on  her  throne, 

And  the  last  spirit  to  the  heav'ns  has  flown ; 

In  that  dread  hour,  when  hushed  in  deep  repose, 

The  prelude  of  creation's  dying  throes  — 

The  dead  lie  slumb'ring  shrouded  in  their  pall, 

And  wait  unconscious  for  the  angePs  call ; 

'Tis  this  shall  sound  the  vivifying  strain. 

And  wake  mortality  to  life  again  ; 

Shall  snatch  her  harp,  when  circling  flames  arise, 

And  soar  and  sing  eternal  in  the  skies  ! 


ELIJAH    P.    LOVEJOY. 


THE  FAREWELL. 

LA.ND  of  my  birth  !  my  natal  soil  farewell : 
The  winds  and  waves  are  bearing  me  away 
Fast  from  thy  shores ;  and  I  would  offer  thee 
This  sincere  tribute  of  a  swelling  heart. 
I  love  thee :  witness  that  I  do,  my  tears, 
Which  gushingly  do  flow,  and  will  not  be  restrained 
At  thought  of  seeing  thee,  perchance  no  more. 
Yes,  I  do  love  thee ;   though  thy  hills  are  bleak, 
And  piercing  cold  thy  winds ;  though  winter  blasts 
Howl  long  and  dreary  o'er  thee  ;  and  thy  skies 
Frown  oftener  than  they  smile  ;  though  thine  is  not 
The  rich  profusion  that  adorns  the  year  in  sunnier  climes ; 
Though  spicy  gales  bloAV  not  in  incense  from  thy  groves : 
For  thou  hast  that,  far  more  than  worth  them  all. 
Health  sits  upon  thy  rugged  hills, and  blooms  in  all  thy  vales ; 
Thy  laws  are  just,  or  if  thy  ever  lean, 
'Tis  to  sweet  mercy's  side  at  pity's  call. 
Thy  sons  are  noble,  in  whose  veins  there  runs 
A  richer  tide  than  Europe's  kings  can  boast, 
The  blood  of  freemen :  blood  which  oft  has  flowed 
In  fkeedom's  holiest  cause  ;  and  keady  yet  to  flow, 
If  need  should  be,  ere  it  would  cuhdle  down 
To  the  slow  sluggish  stream  of  slavery. 
Thy  daughters  too  are  fair,  and  beauty's  mien 
Looks  still  the  lovelier,  graced  with  purity. 
For  these  I  love  thee ;  and  if  these  were  all. 
Good  reason  were  there,  that  thou  shouldst  be  loved. 
7 


But  other  ties,  and  dearer  far  than  all, 

Bind  fast  my  heart  to  thee. 

Who  can  forget  the  scones,  in  which  the  doubtful  ray 

Of  reason,  first  dawned  o'er  him  ?     Can  memory  e'er 

Forsake  the  home  where  friends,  where  parents  dwell  ? 

Close  by  the  mansion  where  I  first  drew  breath, 

There  stands  a  tree,  beneath  whose  branching  shade 

I've  sported  oft  in  childhood's  sunny  hours  ;  — 

A  lofty  elm  ;  — I've  carved  my  name  thereon  ; 

There  let  it  grow,  a  still  increasing  proof. 

That  time  cannot  efface,  nor  distance  dim 

The  recollection  of  those  halcyon  days. 

]My  father  too  ;  I'  ve  grieved  his  manly  heart, 

Full  many  a  time,  by  heedless  waywardness  ; 

While  he  was  laboring  with  a  parent's  care, 

To  feed  and  clothe  his  thoughtless,  thankless  boy. 

And  I  have  trembled,  as  with  frown  severe 

He  oft  has  checked  me,  when  perhaps  I  meant 

To  do  him  pleasure,  with  my  childish  mirth  ; 

And  thought  how  strange  it  was,  he  would  not  smile. 

But  oh  !  my  mother  !  she  whose  every  look 

Was  love  and  tenderness,  that  knew  no  check  ; 

Who  joyed  with  me  ;  whose  fond  maternal  eye 

Grew  dim,  Avhen  pain  or  sorrow  faded  mine. 

But  time  is  speeding ;  and  the  billowy  waves 

Are  hurrying  me  away.     Thy  misty  shores 

Grow  dim  in  distance ;  while  yon  setting  sun 

Seems  lingering  fondly  on  them,  as  'twould  take 

Like  me,  a  last  adieu.     I  go  to  tread 

The  Avestern  vales,  whose  gloomy  cypress  tree 

Shall  haply  soon  be  wreathed  upon  my  bier : 

Land  of  my  birth  !  my  natal  soil.  Farewell  ! 


ELIJAH    P.    LOYEJOY.  79 


THE  LITTLE  STAR. 

I  "WOULD  I  were  on  yonder  little  star. 
That  looks  so  modest  in  the  silver  sky, 
Removed  in  boundless  space  so  very  far. 
That  scarce  its  rays  can  meet  the  gazer's  eye, 
Yet  there  it  hangs  all  lonely,  bright  and  high. 

O  could  I  mount  where  fancy  leads  the  way, 
How  soon  would  I  look  down  upon  the  sun, 
Rest  my  tired  wing  upon  his  upward  ray, 
And  go  where  never  yet  his  beams  have  shone. 
Light  on  that  little  star  and  make  it  all  my  own. 

Love  dwells  not  with  us,  in  some  happier  sphere, 

It  makes  its  angel  heaven  to  innocence  so  dear: 

There  is  beyond  this  sublunary  ball, 

A  land  of  souls,  a  heaven  of  peace  and  joy, 

Whose  skies  are  always  bright,  whose  pleasures  never  cloy. 

And  if  to  souls  released  from  earth  'tis  given. 
To  choose  their  home  through  bright  infinity, 
Then  yonder  star  shall  be  my  happy  heaven. 
And  I  will  live  unknown,  for  I  would  be 
The  lonely  hermit  of  Eternity. 


80  ELIJAH    P.    LOVEJOY. 


THE  WANDERER. 

The  sun  was  set,  and  that  dim  twilight  hour, 
Which  shrouds  in  gloom  whate'er  it  looks  upon, 

Was  o'er  the  world  :   stern  desolation  lay 
In  her  own  ruins  ;  every  mark  was  gone, 

Save  one  tall,  beetling  monumental  stone. 

Amid  a  sandy  waste  it  reared  its  head, 

All  scathed  and  blackened  by  the  lightning  shock, 
That  many  a  scar  and  many  a  seam  had  made, 

E'en  to  its  base ;  and  there  Avith  thundering  stroke, 
Erie's  wild  waves  in  ceaseless  clamor  broke. 

And  on  its  rifted  top  the  wanderer  stood,  (/) 
And  bared  his  head  beneath  the  cold  night  air, 

And  wistfully  he  gazed  upon  the  flood  : 

It  were  a  boon  to  him,  (so  thought  he  there,) 

Beneath  that  tide  to  rest  from  every  care. 

And  might  it  be,  and  not  his  own  rash  hand 

Have  done  the  deed,  (for  yet  he  dared  not  brave. 

All  reckless  as  he  was,  the  high  command, 
Do  thyself  no  harm,)  adown  the  wave 

And  in  the  tall  lake-grass  that  night  had  been  his  grave. 


ELIJAH    P.    LOVEJOY.  81 

Oh  !  you  may  tell  of  that  philosophy, 

Which  steels  the  heart  'gainst  every  bitter  wo  : 

'Tis  not  in  nature,  and  it  cannot  be  ; 

You  cannot  rend  young  hearts,  and  not  a  throe 

Of  agony  tell  how  they  feel  the  blow. 

He  was  a  lone  and  solitary  one, 

With  none  to  love,  and  pity  he  disdained  : 

His  hopes  were  wrecked,  and  all  his  joys  Avere  gone  ; 
But  his  dark  eye  blanched  not ;  his  pride  remained  : 

And  if  he  deeply  felt,  to  none  had  he  complained. 

Of  all  that  knew  him  few  but  judged  him  wrong  : 

He  was  of  silent  and  unsocial  mood  : 
Unloving  and  unloved  he   passed  along  : 

His  chosen  path  with  steadfast  aim  he  trod, 
Nor  asked  nor  wished  applause,  save  only  of  his  God. 

Oh  !  how  preposterous  'tis  for  man  to  claim 
In  his  own  strength  to  chain  the  human  soul  !  ■ 

Go,  first,  and  learn  the  elements  to  tame, 
Ere  you  would  exercise  your  vain  control 

O'er  that  v/hich  pants  and  strive  for  an  immortal  goal. 

Yet  oft  a  young  and  generous  heart  has  been 

By  cruel  keepers  trampled  on  and  torn  ; 
And  all  the  worst  and  wildest  passions  in 

The  human  breast  have  roused  themselves  in  scorn. 
That  else  had  dormant  slept,  or  never  had  been  born. 


83  ELIJAH    P.    LOVEJOY. 

Take  heed  yc  guardians  of  the  youthful  mind, 
That  facile  grows  beneath  your  kiiidly  care  : 

'Tis  of  clastic   mould,  and,  if  confined 

With  too  much  stress  '  shoots  madly  from  its  sphere,' 

Unswayed  by  love,  and  unrestrained  by  fear, 

Oh  !  tis  a  fearful  Masting  sight  to  see 

The  soul  in  ruins,  withered,  rived,  and  wrung, 

And  doomed  to  spend  its  immortality 

Darkling  and  hopeless,  where  despair  has  flung 

Her  curtains  o'er  the  loves  to  which  it  fondly  clung. 

So  thought  the  wanderer :  so,  perhaps,  he  felt : 
(But  this  is  unrevealed  :)  now  had  he  come 

To  the  far  woods,  and  there  in  silence  knelt 
On  the  sharp  flint-stone  in  the  raylcss  gloom, 

And  fervently  he  prayed  to  find  an  early  tomb. 

Weep  not  for  him  :  he  asks  no  sympathy 
From  human  hearts  and  eyes  ;  aloof,  alone, 

On  his  own  spirit  let  him  rest,  and  be 
By  all  his  kind  forgotten  and  unknown. 

And  wild  winds  mingle  with  his  dying  groan. 

And  in  the  desert  let  him  lie  and  sleep, 
In  that  sweet  rest  exhausted  nature  gave  : 

Oh  !  make  his  clay-cold  mansion  dark  and  deep, 
"While  the  tall  trees  their  sombre  foliage  wave, 

And  drop  it  blighted  on  the  wanderer's  grave. 


THE  AMARANTH. 

Thou  art  not  of  cartli,  thou  beautiful  thing, 
With  thy  changeless  form  and  hue — 

For  thou  in  thy  heart  liast  ever  borne 
A  drop  of  that  living  dew 

That  nourished  thee,  when  earth  was  young, 

And  the  music  of  Eden  around  thee  rung. 


Thou  art  not  of  earth :  no  change  is  thine — 

No  touch  of  death  or  decay; 
And  the  airs  that  fanned  thee  in  Paradise, 

Seem  over  thy  leaves  to  play ; 
And  they  whisper  still  of  fadeless  bowers, 
Where  never  shall  wither  the  blooming  flowers. 

Thou  art  not  of  earth :  thou  changest  not 

When  the  wintry  blast  is  nigh. 
Though  thy  scatter'd  leaves  are  wildly  toss'd 

On  the  wind  as  it  rushes  by; 
For  even  then,  in  that  hour  of  dread, 
Not  a  hue  of  beauty  hath  left  the  dead. 

I  deem  that  Eve,  when  in  terror  forced 

From  her  Eden  home  to  part. 
Must  have  sadly  look'd  on  those  fadeless  bowers, 

And  clasped  thee  to  her  heart — 
And  thou  in  thy  exile  still  dost  tell 
Of  a  changeless  home  where  the  good  shall  dwell. 


ELIZABETH    OAKES    SMITH. 

AGE,   47   YEAKS. 

Miss  Elizabeth  Oakes  Prince,  now  Mrs.  Smith,  if  we  Ccan  rely 
unon  the  most  defiiiite  iiifonnation  obtained,  (g)  was  born  in  the  city 
of  Portland,  in  the  year  1807.  Her  first  poem  of  any  length,  was 
iniblished  in  1842,  under  the  title  of  'The  Sinless  Child,'  and  con- 
tains some  of  the  most  beautiful  passages  in  the  Enghsh  language. 
When  about  sixteen  years  of  age,  she  became  engaged  to,  and  soon 
after  married  Seba  Smith,  Esq.,  a  lawyer,  now  in  practice  in  the  city 
of  New-York,  but  who  was  then  residing  in  Portland.  She  has  pub- 
Ushed  several  volumes  of  prose  and  poetry,  some  of  which  are  upon 
the  Duties  of  Woman,  and  now  has  a  volume  in  press,  that  is  said 
to  be  a  jom-nal  of  her  own  thoughts  and  feelings,  rather  than  a  work 
of  fiction,  although  issued  as  such. 

Mrs.  Smith  is  an  able  advocate,  and  lectm'es  upon  the  progres- 
sive side  of  Woman's  Rights.  She  has  talent  of  the  highest  order, 
and  Anil  yet  attain  a  more  extended  popularity  by  her  essays  and  lec- 
tures, which  abound  with  deep  thought  and  strong  and  sound  argu- 
ments. She  has  been  a  pioneer  in  a  new  field  for  female  talent,  and 
one  that  bids  fan-  to  be  filled  -with  able  and  eloquent  laborers.  ]\Irs. 
Smith  possesses  a  highly  cultivated  and  enlarged  mind,  and  is  as  well 
versed  in  the  English  language  as  any  female  writer  of  our  country. 
As  a  poetess  she  occupies  a  position  in  the  front  rank  among  the  most 
gifted  male  and  female  poets  of  America.  Li  her  poetry,  '  She  de- 
su-es  to  teach  a  philosophy  of  the  whole  nature  of  man,  m  which  the 

8 


86  ELIZABETH    O.    SMITH. 


imagination  and  the  affections  should  predominate,  and  by  which  the 
relation  of  man  and  the  external  universe  to  each  other  and  to  God 
might  be  disjilaycd 

'  In  words  tliat  move  in  metrical  array.' 

She  hopes  to  soothe  and  harmonize  the  soul,  by  opening  to  it  unex- 
plored regions  of  loveliness  and  delight ;  by  accustoming  it  to  the 
contemplation  of  the  majesty  of  the  universe.' 

E.  P.  Whipple,  one  of  the  ablest  reviewers  in  this  country,  pays 
the  follo\ving  merited  comphment  to  the  poetical  genius  of  Mrs. 
Smith,  in  an  article  upon  the  '  Poets  and  Poetry  of  America,'  which 
appeared  in  the  '  North  American  Renew,'  in  1844. 

'  ]Mrs.  E.  Oakes  Smith,  of  New-York,  has  written  a  number  of 
short  poems  of  much  beauty,  ])urity,  and  spirituaHty.  '  The  Sinless 
Child,'  and  '  The  Acorn,'  manifest  quahties  of  the  mind  and  heart, 
wliich  are  worthy  of  a  more  thorough  development.  They  display 
much  depth  of  feeling  and  affluence  of  fancy,  and  are  singularly  pure 
and  sweet  in  then-  tone.  '  The  Sinless  Child,'  though  deficient  in  ar- 
tistical  finish,  contains  many  passages  of  a  liigh  order  of  i)oetry,  and 
is  stainless  as  its  subject.  It  gives  evidence,  also,  of  a  capacity  for  a 
more  extended  sweep  over  the  domain  of  thought  and  emotion.  Mrs. 
Smith  is  not  merely  a  smooth  and  skilful  versifier,  indulging  occasion- 
ally in  a  flirtation  with  poetry,  to  while  away  the  time,  but  one  whose 
productions  are  true  exponents  of  her  inward  life,  and  display  the 
fi-eshness  and  fervor  M'liich  come  from  individuality  of  character  and 
feeling.  She  speaks  of  what  she  knows  and  of  what  she  has  felt. 
Her  theory  of  morals  does  not  seem  to  have  come  into  her  soul 
through  the  inlet  of  her  ear.  Her  truthfuhiess  is  a  prominent  char- 
acteristic of  her  genius.' 


ELIZABETH    O.    SMITH.  87 


THE  ACORN. 

An  acorn  fell  from  an  old  oak  tree, 

And  lay  on  the  frosty  ground  — 
'  O,  what  shall  the  fate  of  the  acorn  be  ?  ' 

Was  Avhisper'd  all  around, 
By  low-toned  voices,  chiming  sweet, 

Like  floweret's  bell  when  swung  — 
And  grasshopper  steeds  were  gathering  fleet, 

And  the  beetle's  hoofs  up-rung  — 

For  the  woodland  Fays  came  sweeping  past 

In  the  pale  autumnal  ray, 
Where  the  forest  leaves  were  falling  fast. 

And  the  acorn  quivering  lay  ; 
They  came  to  tell  what  its  fate  should  be, 

Though  life  was  unreveal'd  ; 
For  life  is  holy  mystery, 

Where'er  it  is  conceal'd 

They  came  with  griefs  that  should  life  bestow  : 

The  dew  and  the  living  air  — 
The  bane  that  should  work  its  deadly  woe  — 

Was  found  with  the  Fairies  there. 
In  the  gray  moss-cup  was  the  mildew  brought, 

And  a  worm  in  the  rose-leaf  roll'd. 
And  many  things  with  destruction  fraught. 

That  its  fate  were  quickly  told. 


88  ELIZABETH    0.    SMITH. 

But  it  needed  not :  for  a  blessed  fate 

Was  the  acorn's  doom'd  to  be  — 
The  spirits  of  earth  sliould  its  birth-time  wait, 

And  watch  o'er  its  destiny. 
To  a  little  sprite  was  the  task  assign'd, 

To  bury  the  acorn  deep, 
Away  from  the  frost  and  searching  wind, 

When  they  through  the  forest  sweep. 

I  laugh'd  outright  at  the  small  thing's  toil, 
As  he  bow'd  beneath  the  spade. 

And  he  balanced  his  gossamer  wings  the  while 
To  look  in  the  pit  he  made. 

A  thimble's  depth  it  was  scarcely  deep, 
When  the  spade  aside  he  threw, 

And  roll'd  the  acorn  away  to  sleep 
In  the  hush  of  dropping  dew. 

The  spring-time  came  with  its  fresh,  warm  air, 

And  its  gush  of  woodland  song ; 
The  dew  came  down,  and  the  rain  was  there, 

And  the  sunshine  rested  long  : 
Then  softly  the  black  earth  turn'd  aside, 

The  old  leaf  arching  o'er. 
And  up,  where  the  last  year's  leaf  was  dried, 

Came  the  acorn-shell  once  more. 

With  coiled  stem,  and  a  pale  green  hue, 

It  look'd  but  a  feeble  thing  ; 
Then  deeply  its  roots  abroad  it  threw. 

Its  strength  from  the  earth  to  bring.  ' 


ELIZABETH    O.    SMITH.  89 

The  woodland  spirits  are  gathering  round, 

Rejoiced  that  the  task  is  done  — 
That  another  life  from  the  noisome  ground 

Is  up  to  the  pleasant  sun. 

The  young  child  pass'd  with  a  careless  tread, 

And  the  germ  had  well-nigh  crush'd  ; 
But  a  spider,  launch'd  on  her  airy  thread, 

The  cheek  of  the»stripling  brush'd. 
He  little  knew,  as  he  started  back, 

How  the  acorn's  fate  was  hung 
On  the  very  point  in  the  spider's  track 

Where  the  web  on  his  cheek  was  flung. 

The  autumn  came,  and  it  stood  alone, 

And  bow'd  as  the  wind  pass'd  by  — 
The  wind  that  utter'd  its  dirge-like  moan 

In  the  old  oak  sear  and  dry  ; 
And  the  hollow  branches  creak'd  and  sway'd, 

But  they  bent  not  to  the  blast, 
For  the  stout  oak  tree  where  centuries  play'd, 

Was  sturdy  to  the  last. 

A  school  boy  beheld  the  lithe  young  shoot,  ' ' 

And  his  knife  was  instant  out, 
To  sever  the  stalk  from  the  spreading  root, 

And  scatter  the  buds  about ; 
To  peel  the  bark  in  curious  rings, 

And  many  a  notch  and  ray, 
To  beat  the  air  till  it  whizzing  rings, 

Then  idly  cast  away. 


90  ELIZABETH    O.   SMITH. 

His  hand  was  stay'd ;  he  knew  not  why  : 

'Twas  a  presence  brcath'd  around  — 
A  pleading  from  the  deep-blue  sky, 

And  up  from  the  teeming  ground. 
It  told  of  the  care  that  lavish' d  had  been 

In  sunshine  and  in  dew  — 
Of  the  many  things  that  had  wrought  a  screen 

When  peril  around  it  grew. 

It  told  of  the  oak  that  once  had  bow'd, 

As  feeble  a  thing  to  see ; 
But  now,  when  the  storm  was  raging  loud, 

It  wrestled  mightily. 
There's  a  deeper  thought  on  the  schoolboy's  brow, 

A  new  love  at  his  heart ; 
And  he  ponders  much,  as  with  footsteps  slow 

He  turns  him  to  depart. 

Up  grew  the  twig,  with  a  vigor  bold, 

In  the  shade  of  the  parent  tree, 
And  the  old  oak  knew  that  his  doom  was  told, 

When  the  sapling  sprang  so  free. 
Then  the  fierce  winds  came,  and  they  raging  tore 

The  hollow  limbs  away  ; 
And  the  damp  moss  crept  from  the  earthly  floor 

Around  the  trunk,  time-worn  and  gray. 

The  young  oak  grew,  and  proudly  grew. 
For  its  roots  were  deep  and  strong ; 

And  a  shadow  broad  on  the  earth  it  threw, 
And  the  sunlight  linger'd  long 


ELIZABETH   O.    SMITH,  91 


On  its  glossy  leaf,  where  the  flickering  light 

Was  flung  to  the  evening  sky ; 
And  the  wild  bird  came  to  its  airy  height, 

And  taught  her  young  to  fly. 

In  acorn  time  came  the  truant  boy, 

With  a  wild  and  eager  look. 
And  he  mark'd  the  tree  with  a  wondering  joy, 

As  the  wind  the  great  limbs  shook. 
He  look'd  where  the  moss  on  the  north  side  grew, 

The  gnarled  arms  outspread, 
The  solemn  shadow  the  huge  tree  threw, 

As  it  tower'd  above  his  head  ; 

And  vague-like  fears  the  boy  surround, 

In  the  shadow  of  that  tree  ; 
So  growing  up  from  the  darksome  ground, 

Like  a  giant  mystery. 
His  heart  beats  quick  to  the  squirrel's  tread 

On  the  wither'd  leaf  and  dry, 
And  he  lifts  not  up  his  awe-struck  head 

As  the  eddying  wind  sweeps  by. 

And  regally  the  stout  oak  stood, 

In  its  vigor  and  its  pride  ; 
A  monarch  own'd  in  the  solemn  wood, 

With  a  sceptre  spreading  wide  — 
No  more  in  the  wintry  blast  to  bow, 

Or  rock  in  the  summer  breeze  ; 
But  draped  in  green,  or  star-like  snow, 

Reign  king  of  the  forest  trees. 


92  ELIZABETH    0.    SMITH. 

And  a  thousand  years  it  firmly  grew, 

And  a  thousand  bhists  defied ; 
And,  mighty  in  strength,  its  broad  arms  threw 

A  shadow  dense  and  wide. 
It  grew  where  the  rocks  were  bursting  out 

From  the  thin  and  heaving  soil  — 
Where  the  ocean's  roar,  and  the  sailor's  shout, 

Were  mingled  in  wild  turmoil  — 

Where  the  far-ofF  sound  of  the  restless  deep 

Came  up  with  a  booming  swell ; 
And  the  white  foam  dash'd  to  the  rocky  steep, 

But  it  loved  the  tumult  well. 
Then  its  huge  limbs  creaked  in  the  midnight  air. 

And  join'd  in  the  rude  uproar; 
For  it  loved  the  storm  and   the  lightning's  glare 

And  the  sound  of  the  breaker's  roar. 

The  bleaching  bones  of  the  sea-bird's  prey 

Were  heap'd  on  the  rocks  below  ; 
And  the  bald-head  eagle,  fierce  and  gray, 

Look'd  off"  from  its  topmost  bough. 
Where  its  shadow  lay  on  the  quiet  wave 

The  light-boat  often  swung, 
And  the  stout  ship,  saved  from  the  ocean  grave. 

Her  cable  round  it  flung. 

Change  came  to  the  mighty  things  of  earth  — 

Old  empires  pass'd  aAvay  ; 
Of  the  generations  that  had  birth, 

O  Death  !  where,  where  were  they  ? 


ELIZABETH    O.   SMITH.  93 

Yet  fresh  and  green  the  brave  oak  stood, 

Nor  dream'd  it  of  decay, 
Though  a  thousand  times  in  the  autumn  wood 

Its  leaves  on  the  pale  earth  lay. 

A  sound  comes  down  in  the  forest  trees, 

And  echoing  from  the  hill ; 
It  floats  far  off  on  the  summer  breeze, 

And  the  shore  resounds  it  shrill. 
Lo !  the  monarch  tree  no  more  shall  stand 

Like  a  watch-tower  of  the  main  — 
The  strokes  fall  thick  from  the  woodman's  hand 

And  its  falling  shakes  the  plain. 

The  stout  live  oak  !  —  'twas  a  worthy  tree, 

And  the  builder  mark'd  it  out ; 
And  he  smiled  its  angled  limbs  to  see. 

As  he  measured  the  trunk  about. 
Already  to  him  was  a  gallant  bark 

Careering  the  rolling  deep, 
And  in  sunshine,  calm,  or  tempest  dark, 

Her  way  she  will  proudly  keep- 

The  chisel  clicks,  and  the  hammer  rings. 

And  the  merry  jest  goes  round; 
While  he  who  longest  and  loudest  sings 

Is  the  stoutest  workman  found. 
With  jointed  rib,  and  trunnel'd  plank 

The  work  goes  gayly  on. 
And  light-spoke  oaths,  when  the  glass  they  drank, 

Are  heard  till  the  task  is  done. 


94  ELIZABETH    O.   SMITH. 

She  sits  on  the  rocks,  the  skeleton  ship, 

With  her  oaken  ribs  all  bare, 
And  the  child  looks  up  with  parted  lip, 

As  it  gathers  fuel  there  — 
With  brimless  hat,  the  barefoot  boy 

Looks  round  with  strange  amaze. 
And  dreams  of  a  sailor's  life  of  joy 

Are  mingling  in  that  gaze. 

With  graceful  waist  and  carvings  brave 

The  trim  hull  waits  the  sea  — 
And  proudly  stoops  to  the  crested  wave, 

While  round  go  the  cheerings  three. 
Her  prow  swells  up  from  the  yeasty  deep. 

Where  it  plung'd  in  foam  and  spray : 
And  the  glad  waves  gathering  round  her  sweep 

And  buoy  her  in  their  play. 

Thou  wert  nobly  rear'd,  O  heart  of  oak ! 

In  the  sound  of  the  ocean  roar, 
Where  the  surging  wave  o'er  the  rough  rock  broke, 

And  bellow'd  along  the  shore  — 
And  how  wilt  thou  in  the  storm  rejoice, 

With  the  wind  through  spar  and  shi'oud, 
To  hear  a  sound  like  the  forest  voice, 

When  the  blast  was  raging  loud ! 

With  snow-white  sail,  and  streamer  gay, 

She  sits  like  an  ocean-sprite, 
Careering  on  in  her  trackless  way, 

In  sunshine  or  dark  midnight ; 


ELIZABETH    O    SMITH. 


95 


Her  course  is  laid  with  fearless  skill, 
For  brave  hearts  man  the  helm  ; 

And  joyous  winds  her  canvas  fill  — 

Shall  the  wave  the  stout  ship  whelm  ? 

On,  on  she  goes,  where  the  icebergs  roll 

Like  floating  cities  by  ; 
Where  meteors  flash  by  the  northern  pole, 

And  the  merry  dancers  fly  ; 
Where  the  glittering  light  is  backward  flung 

From  icy  tower  and  dome. 
And  the  frozen  shrouds  are  gayly  hung 

With  gems  from  the  ocean  foam. 

On  the  Indian  sea  Avas  her  shadow   cast, 

As  it  lay  like  molten  gold, 
And  her  pendant  shroud  and  towering  mast 

Seem'd  twice  on  the  waters  told. 
The  idle  canvas  slowly  swung 

As  the  spicy  breeze  went  by. 
And  strange,  rare  music  around  her  rung 

From  the  palm  tree  growing  nigh. 


0,  gallant  ship,  thou  didst  bear  with  thee 

The  gay  and  the  breaking  heart. 
And  weeping  eyes  look'd  out  to  see 

Thy  white-spread  sails  depart. 
And  when  the  rattling  casement  told 

Of  many  a  perilPd  ship, 
The  anxious  wife  her  babes  would  fold, 

And  pray  with  trembling  lip. 


96 


ELIZABETH    O.    SMITH. 


The  petrel  Avhcel'd  in  its  stormy  flight ; 

The  wind  piped  shrill  and  high  ; 
On  the  topmast  sat  a  pale  blue  light, 

That  flicker'd  not  to  the  eye  : 
The  black  cloud  came  like  a  banner  down, 

And  down  came  the  shrieking  blast ; 
The  quivering  ship  on  her  beam  is  thrown. 

And  gene  are  helm  and  mast. 


Helmless,  but  on  before  the  gale, 

She  ploughs  the  dcep-trough'd  wave  : 
A  gurgling  sound  —  a  frenzied  wail  — 

And  the  ship  has  found  a  grave. 
And  thus  is  the  fate  of  the  acorn  told, 

That  fell  from  the  old  oak  tree, 
And  the  woodlawn  Fays  in  the  frosty  mould 

Preserved  for  its  destiny. 


ELIZABETH    O.    SMITH. 


97 


THE  .DROWNED  MARINER. 

A  Marixek  sat  on  the  shrouds  one  night, 

The  wind  was  piping  free  ; 
Now  bright,  now  dimm'd  was  the  moonlight  pale, 
And  the  phosphor  gleani'd  in  the  wake  of  the  whale, 

As  it  flounder'd  in  the  sea  ; 
The  scud  was  flying  athwait  the  sky, 
The  gathering  winds  went  w^histling  by, 
And  the  wave,  as  it  tower' d,  then  fell  in  spray, 
Look'd  an  emerald  wall  in  the  moonlight  ray. 

The  mariner  sway'd  and  rock'd  on  the  mast. 

But  the  tumult  pleased  him  well : 
Down  the  yawning  wave  his  eye  he  cast, 
And  the  monsters  watch'd  as  they  hurried  past, 

Or  lightly  rose  and  fell, — 
For  their  broad,  damp  fins  were  under  the  tide, 
And  they  lash'd  as  they  pass'd  the  vessel's  side, 
And  their  filmy   eyes,  all  huge  and  grim, 
Glared  fiercely  up,  and  they  glared  at  him. 

Now  freshens  the  gale,  and  the  brave  ship  goes 

Like  an  uncurb'd  steed  along  ; 
A  sheet  of  flame  is  the  spray  she  throws, 
As  her  gallant  bow  the  water  ploughs, 

But  the  ship  is  fleet  and  strong ; 
The  topsail  is  reef 'd,  and  the  sails  are  furl'd, 
And  onward  she  sweeps  o'er  the  watery  world, 
And  dippeth  her  spars  in  the  surging  flood  ; 
But  there  cometh  no  chill  to  the  mariner's  blood. 
9 


98  ELIZABETH    O.    SMITH. 

Wildly  she  rocks,  but  he  SM'ingeth  at  case, 

And  holdeth  by  the  shroud  ; 
And  as  she  careens  to  the  crowding  breeze, 
The  gaping  deep  the  mariner  sees. 

And  the  surging  heareth  loud. 
Was  that  a  face,  looking  up  to  him, 
"With  its  pallid  cheek,  and  its  cold  eyes  dim  ? 
Did  it  beckon  him  down  ?     Did  it  call  his  name  ? 
Now  rolleth  the  ship  in  the  way  whence  it  came. 

The  mariner  look'd,  and  he  saw,  with  dread, 

A  face  he  knew  too  well ; 
And  the  cold  eyes  glared,  the  eyes  of  the  dead, 
And  its'^long  hair  out  on  the  wave  was  spread,  — 

Was  there  a  talc  to  tell  ? 
The  stout  ship  rock'd  with  a  reeling  speed, 
And  the  mariner  groan'd,  as  Avell  he  need  — 
For  ever  down,  as  she  plunged  on  her  side, 
The  dead  face  gleam'd,  from  the  briny  tide. 

Bethink  thee,  mariner,  well  of  the  past : 

A  voice  calls  loud  for  thee : 
There's  a  stifled  prayer,  the  first,  the  last ; 
The  plunging  ship  on  her  beam  is  cast  — 

O,  where  shall  thy  burial  be  ? 
Bethink  thee  of  oath's  that  were  lightly  spoken ; 
Bethink  thee  of  vows  that  were  lightly  broken ; 
Bethink  thee  of  all  that  was  dear  to  thee, 
For  thou  art  alone  on  the  raging  sea ; 


ELIZABETH    O.    SMITH.  99 


Alone  in  the  dark,  alone  on  tlie  wave, 

To  buffet  the  storm  alone  ; 
To  struggle  aghast  at  thy  watery  grave, 
To  struggle  and  feel  there  is  none  to  save ! 

God  shield  thee,  helpless  one  ! 
The  stout  limbs  yield,  for  their  strength  is  past ; 
The   trembling  hands  on  the  deep  are  cast ; 
The  white  brow  gleams  a  moment  more, 
Then  slowly  sinks,  —  the  struggle  is  o'er. 

Down,  down  where  the  storm  is  lash'd  to  sleep, 

"Where  the  sea  its  dirge  shall  swell ; 
Where  the  amber  drops  for  thee  shall  weep, 
And  the  rose-lipp'd  shell  its  music  keep; 

There  thou  shalt  slumber  well. 
The  gem  and  the  pearl  lie  heap'd  at  thy  side ; 
They  fell  from  the  neck  of  the  beautiful  bride, 
From  the  strong  man's  hand,  from  the  maiden's  brow, 
As  they  slowly  sunk  to  the  caves  below. 

A  peopled  home  is  the  ocean-bed ; 

The  mother  and  child  are  there  : 
The  fervent  youth  and  the  hoary  head, 
The  maid,  with  her  floating  locks  outspread. 

The  babe,  with  its  silken  hair  : 
As  the  water  moveth,  they  slightly  sway. 
And  the  tranquil  lights  on  their  features  play : 
And  there  is  each  cherish'd  and  beautiful  form. 
Away  from  decay,  and  away  from  the  storm. 


100  ELIZABETH    O.    SMITH. 


PROGKESSION. 

HorE  on,  hope  on,  0,  restlrss  heart ! 

Though  dark  the  hour  may  be  — 
For  e'en  in  all  thy  s^^ruggles  know 

A  glory  waits  for  thee  ! 
0  keep  then  still  the  dew  of  youth  — 
Still  hold  thou  fast  unto  the  truth. 

What  though  the  strong  desires  sent  forth 

Unequal  ends  attain  — 
And  thy  intenscst  thought  result, 

That  all  of  earth  is  vain  — 
O,  not  in  vain,  if  truth  and  right 
But  arm  thee  with  heroic  might. 

Toil  on,  for  like  the  pillar'd  stone 
O'er  which  the  moss  has  crept, 

And  veiled  the  record  there  inscribed 
While  ages  round  it  slept  — 

Thus,  thou  mayest  on  thy  tablet  read 

A  truth  to  meet  thine  utmost  need ; 

Hast  thou,  in  this  unequal  strife, 

But  tendest  to  a  goal, 
Whose  object  realized  shall  fill 

The  vastness  of  the  soul  — 
These  ardent  hopes  —  these  wishes  high 
Belong  to  that  which  cannot  die. 


1     '     1  1 1'   J 1  1 


ireuHlh  ptihn. 


MOUNT  WASHINGTON. 

BIou.vT  of  the  clouds,  on  wliose  Olympian  height 

The  tall  rocks  brigliten  in  the  ether  air, 

And  spirits  Irom  the  skies  come  down  at  night, 

To  chant  immortal  songs  to  Freedom  there! 

Thine  is  the  rock  of  other  regions,  where 

The  world  of  life  which  blooms  so  far  below, 

Sweeps  a  wide  waste;   no  gladdening  scenes  appear, 

Save  where,  with  silvery  flash  the  waters  flow 

Beneath  the  far-olT  mountain,  distant,  calm,  and  slow. 

Thine  is  the  summit  where  the  clouds  repose, 
Or,  eddying  wildly,  round  thy  clilfs  are  borne; 
When  Temptest  mounts  his  rushing  car,  and  throws 
His  billowy  mist  amid  the  thunder's  home! 
Far  down  the  deep  ravine  the  whirlwinds  come. 
And  bow  the  forests  as  they  sweep  along ; 
While,  roaring  deeply  from  their  rocky  womb. 
The  storms  come  forth,  and  hurrying  darkly  on, 
Amid  the  echoing  peaks  the  revelry  prolong! 

And  when  the  tumult  of  the  air  is  fled. 
And  (juench'd  in  silence  all  tempest  flame, 
There  come  the  dim  forms  of  the  mighty  dead, 
Around  the  steep  that  bears  the  hero's  name! 
The  stars  look  down  upon  them;  and  the  same 
Pale  orb  that  glistens  o'er  his  distant  grave 
Gleams  on  the  summit  that  enshrines  his  fame, 
And  lights  the  cold  tear  of  the  glorious  brave. 
The  richest,  purest  tear  that  memory  ever  gave ! 

Mount  of  the  clouds!  when  winter  round  thee  throw3 

The  hoary  mantle  of  the  dying  year. 

Sublime  amid  thy  canopy  of  snows. 

Thy  towers  in  bright  magnificence  apjiear! 

'  Tis  then  we  view  thee  with  a  chilling  faar. 

Till  summer  robes  thee  in  her  tints  of  blue; 

When,  lol   in  soften'd  grandeur,  far,  yet  clear. 

Thy  battlements  stand  clothed  in  harmonious  hue, 

To  swell  as  Freedom's  home  on  man's  unclouded  view. 


GRENVILLE    MELLEN. 

DIED,  AGED  43  YEAKS. 

Grexville  Mellex  was  born  in  the  town  of  Birlcloford,  on  the 
nineteenth  day  of  June,  1799,  and  was  a  son  of  the  late  Prentiss 
Mellen,  Chief  Justice  of  Maine.  He  was  educated  at  Harvard  Uni- 
versity, and  read  law  with  liis  father,  who  then  resided  in  Portland. 
A  few  months  after  his  admission  to  the  bar,  he  married  a  very  accom- 
pHshed  yoimg  lady,  and  located  himself  at  North- Yarmouth,  in  the 
practice  of  his  profession.  Dr.  Griswold  (h)  says,  "  Within  three 
years — in  October  1828 — his  wife  to  whom  he  was  devotedly  attached, 
died,  and  his  only  child  followed  her  to  the  grave,  m  the  succeeding 
spring.  From  this  time  his  character  was  changed.  He  had  before 
been  an  ambitious  and  a  happy  man.  The  remainder  of  his  life  was 
clouded  with  melancholy."  Mr.  Mellen's  first  articles  were  contributed 
to  the  United  States  Literary  Gazette,  published  at  Cambridge,  Mass. 
His  fu'st  work,  "  Our  Clu-onicle  of  Twenty-Six" — a  satire,  was  pub- 
lished m  1827 ;  "  Glad  Tales  and  Sad  Tales,"  prose  sketches,  in  1839  ; 
"  The  ]\IartjT's  Trimnph,  and  Other  Poems,"  m  1834.  This  volume 
contained  "  Buried  Valley,"  "  The  Rest  of  Empu-es,"  and  all  of  his 
poems  pre\iously  published  m  the  Magazines.  In  1839,  he  establish- 
ed his  "  Monthly  Miscellany,"  wliich  Avas  short  lived,  on  account  of 
his  failing  health,  and  its  unprofitableness.  He  contributed  a  great 
deal  to  the  various  leading  INIagazines,  and  also  edited  several  works. 
During  the  foUowuig  summer,  he  -visited  the  Island  of  Cuba,  in 
hopes  that  the  sea  air  and  change  of  climate  might  tend  to  his  recov- 
ery, but,  \nth  no  perceptible  improvement,  he  returned  to  New- York 
where  he  died  on  the  fifth  day  of  September,  1841. 


104  GRENVILLE   MELLEN. 


Man  seldom  loves  more  deejily  and  devotedly  the  object  of  his 
choice,  than  did  i\Ir.  Mellen  liis  young  and  affectionate  wife,  and  from 
the  horn-  that  Mitnessed  the  passing  of  her  gentle  spirit  up  to  the 
■world  of  saints,  liis  life  was  melancholy  and  full  of  sorrow 

"  For  the  early  loved  and  lost." 

lie  felt  that  Avhcn  his  Httlc  child  M'cnt  home  to  its  mother's  bosom,  in 
her  bright  abode,  that  every  joy — every  hope  and  ambition  of  liis  life 
was  aimless,  and  could  bring  no  joy  or  happiness  to  his  deserted  home, 
and  two  angel  forms  seemed  ever  around  him,  beckoning  him  up  to 
their  celestial  home.  Like  the  gifted  and  gentle  hearted  Willis 
Gaylord  Clark,  he  sighed  himself  away  in  tears,  to  the  bosom  of 
liis  beloved,  in  a  brighter  home  on  high,  Avhere  sorrow,  death,  and 
parting  are  never  known.  By  his  death,  our  State  lost  one  of  her  most 
gifted  sons,  and  one  who  would,  had  liis  health  and  family  been 
spared  liim,  have  attained  a  very  exalted  position  in  the  literature  of 
our  country,  and  would  have  left  a  fame,  when  djing,  that  we  should 
have  been  doubly  proud  of.  Pro\idence,  Avith  its  usual  wisdom  and 
kindness,  ordered  it  otherwise,  and  he  departed  from  among  us  ere 
he  had  fulfilled  liis  mission  and  attained  the  height  of  his  ambition. 
The  poet  says,  truly, 

"  Death  loves  a  shining  mark," 

for  among  those  of  our  native  Poets  who  have  been  stricken  down  in 
the  prime  of  life,  and  the  spring-time  of  their  fame,  by  his  blighting 
breath,  the  names  of  the  most  gifted,  the  most  loved  and  respected, 
are  recorded.  They  have  not,  however,  gone  from  us  without  learing 
somethmg  to  tell  those  who  succeed  them,  that  they  once  lived,  and 
toiled,  and  died.  Oiu-  State  may  well  mourn  the  death  of  such  gifted 
sons,  as  GreuA-ille  and  Frederic  Mellen,  Thatcher,  Lamb.  Lovejoy, 
Prentiss,  and  their  associates,  who  are  now  sleeping  their  sleep  of 
death,  but  not  miremcmbered,  and  though 

"  We  rear  to  them  no  temples  proud, 
Each  hath  his  mental  pyramid." 


GRENVILLE    MELLEN.  105 


MOUNT  YERNON. 

WRITTEN  DURING  A  VISIT  TO   THE   HOME   OF   WASHINGTON. 

O,  Time  !   whose  wing  untiring  sweeps  the  world  ! 
Still  sounding  onward  in  that  stayless  flight  — 
Unseen,  yet  mightily,  as  when  first   unfurl'd 
In  the  young  morning  of  creation's  light  — 
How  hast  thou  shaken  from  thy  pinion  here. 
Over  the  work  of  man  thy  storm  of  change  ! 
Where  a  whole  people  bends  in  prayer  and  tear. 
O'er  mem'ries  beyond  words  —  so  deep  !  —  so  strange 
Where,  as  around  some  hallow'd  altar-place, 
We  gather,  to  call  back  the  glory  of  our  days ! 

Years,  ye  are  reckless,  as  in  pomp  ye  pass, 
With  your  dim  company  of  Death  and  Wo  — 
Bowing  a  generation  as  the  grass, 
Whose  ranks  scarce  blossom  ere  they  meet  the  blow 
That  levels  them  to  earth  !  —  How  stern  ye  tread 
On  your  long  pilgrimage  to  that  far  land, 
Where  ye,  in  turn,  bow  with  the  shadowy  dead  — 
Of  things  that  joy  us  not  the  voiceless  band  ! 
Yet  as  ye  pass,  how  mark'd  your  footsteps  fall 
On  all  that  circles  us  —  from  cradle  to  the  pall ! 


106 


GRENVILLE    MELLEN. 


The  hovel  and  the  palace  —  the  loud  hall, 
Where  wealth  holds  holiday,  in  feast  and  song ; 
And  the  gray  cloister^  with  its  echoes  —  all 
Sound  to  thy  pinions,  as  they  swoop  along, 
Insatiate  Time  !  —  Alike  on  mount  and  vale, 
On  the  low  cottage,  and  the  cloudy  tower, 
Is  written  still  the  melancholy  tale, 
Of  thy  unfaltering  progress,  and  thy  power  ! 
That  power  that  owns  not  mercy  or  appeal  — 
Stamping  mortality  with  its  eraseless  seal. 

And  here,  where,  hadst  thou  felt  one  thought  of  earth, 
Thy  footsteps  had  fall'n  lightly  —  and  thy  hand 
Had  lain  with  holier  touch  than  marks  the  mirth 
With  which  it  scars  the  pride  of  every  land  — 
Here,  Avhere  —  as  round  arches  of  some  fane 
Virtue  has  made  immortal  —  dull  decay 
Has  struggled  yet  with  memory  in  vain. 
While  lesser  things  of  earth  have  pass'd  away  — 
Here,  as  o'er  temples  of  some  heathen  sky, 
Hast  thou  cast  wide  the  shadow  of  thy  revelry ! 

Ruin  is  written  on  these  sacred  walls  ! 
It  sounds  with  every  foot-fall  —  and  its  tone, 
Like  melancholy  music,  through  these  halls 
Echoes  to  every  whisper  —  low  —  and  lone  ! 
The  voice  of  other  years  uplifts   around  — 
And  to  our  pilgrim  spirit,  as  Ave  tread. 
It  comes  like  some  remember'd  dream  of  sound 
From  the  unfathom'd  mansions  of  the  dead ! 
Ruin  !  —  no  other  accent  meets  the  ear  ! 
Time  !  frown  no  more  on  earth  —  thy  empirage   is  here  ! 


GKENVILLE    MELLEN.  107 

But  thou  rememb'rest  while  a  world  forgets  — 
Thy  seal  is  stamp'd  upon  the  hallow'd  place, 
"Whore,  though  a  light  is  round  that  never  sets, 
And  memory  lingers,  measur'd  by  no  days. 
With  Freedom's  children  —  hearts  that  cannot  die  !  — 
Yet  does  a  people  from  its  Capitol 
Look  with  unstartled  pulse  on  that  decay  ! 
Hear  the  unheeded  fragments  as  they  fall, 
Xor  ask  what  glory  there  may  be  to  save 
The  shrine  to  which  it  bows,  from  darkness   and  the  grave ! 

Great  Father  of  thy  country  !  —  if  'tis  given. 
Over  its  picture  with  an  angel's  eye 
To  gaze  from  the  broad  watch-towers  of  thy  heaven  — 
How  shall  these  black'ning  lines  of  apathy 
Strike  on  thy  vision!  — Shall  ingratitude 
To  one  whose  life  a  people  did  redeem, 
First  strike  thy  spirit?  —  While  o'er  wrongs  they  brood, 
Like  hoarding  misers  o'er  some  golden  dream. 
Sparing  that  noble  justice,  which  no  shame 
Can  summon  to  obey  —  and  give  the  land  to  Fame  ? 

O  look  not  —  look  not  from  thy  throne  of  stars 
Upon  thy  purchas'd  world  !  —  so  bravely  won  ! 
There  is  a  shadow  that  its  radiance  mars  — 
Deeper  than  the  eclipse  that  drowns  the  sun ! 
Look  not  upon  thy  country  !  —  she  has  bow'd 
From  that  great  pinnacle  of  glory  down, 
Where  thou  didst  place  her  —  and  a  voice  aloud 
Proclaims  her  loftier  pride  and  beauty  flown  — 
Look  not  upon  thy  country  !  until  she 
Recalls,  with  kindling  thought,  her  Destiny  and  Thee  ! 


108 


GREN\^LLE   MELLEN. 


I  stood  upon  the  threshold  of  that  home 
Where  he  was  gathered  to  his  dreamless  sleep ! 
Above  me  rose  no  tower  or  sculptur'd  dome, 
But  a  strange  quietness  that  makes  you  weep, 
Was  round  me  like  an  atmosphere.     I  heard 
That  mocking  of  my  footsteps  through  the  hall, 
And  faint  returnings  of  each  whispor'd  word, 
Which  on  the  listener  like  a  trump  will  fall, 
Though  liumble  be  the  home  and  hearth  he  tread, 
O'er  which  the  desolating  wings  of  Tims  have  sped ! 

I  stood  upon  that  threshold.     The  far  voice 
Of  the  low,  chanting  winds  was  in  my  ear, 
And  my  heart  leaped  within  me,  as  with  joys, 
When  I  bethought  me  of  past  glories  here  — 
And  seem'd  to  read  its  story  in  that  sound, 
As  syllabled  by  beings  of  the  air, 
Who  swept  unseen  on  silent  wings  around, 
And  held  their  ceaseless  court  of  memory  there ! 
Spirits  that  sentinel'd  that  quiet  mount, 
And  linger'd  as  about  some  lone  and  magic  fount. 


And  who  were  they  —  the  band  that  cluster'd  here 
The  pilgrim  pathway  to  that  lonelv  grave  — 
With  eyes  illum'd  by  recollection's  tear. 
As  the  past  swept  their  spirits  like  a  wave  ? 
Who,  that  with  quivering  lip,  as  if  in  prayer, 
And  lifted  brow,  stood  at  that  iron  gate. 
Within  which,  over  spoils  of  glory  rare. 
Death,  in  his  wonted  home  of  victory  sate  — 
The  tomb  of  a  world's  Father  —  where  the  son 
And  daughter  age  shall  bow  —  from  the  broad  land  he  won ! 


GRENVILLE  MELLEN. 


109 


They  were  the  children  of  that  favor'd  land, 
Bending  above  the  ashes  of  its  SiiiE  I 
Beauty,  with  marble  check  and  snowy  hand, 
TremblinjT  as  'mid  the  music  of  its  Ivre, 
When  pointing  to  those  relics  of  decay 
That  round  her  shrinking  feet  oft  fell  and  rung. 
As  she  pursued  her  melancholy  way. 
Where  memory  murmur'd  with  her  ceaseless  tongue. 
Like  the  low  forest  music  of  the  trees  — 
Or  the  great  harmony  that  dies  not,  of  the  seas  ! 

Woman,  who  'neath  that  mould'ring  archway  bow'd, 
And  the  dank  dust  with  cautious  step  did  press  — 
Where  death's  memorials  did  about  her  crowd  — 
Chilling  decay  enshrin'd  with  loveliness  ! 
Woman  !  —  and  at  her  side  a  gentle  youth. 
With  dark  eye  and  low  voice,  like  one  who  feels 
The  stirring  revelation  of  great  truth, 
That,  at  such  shrines,  through  the  hush'd  spirit  steals 
And  near,  like  a  lost  waijd'rer  'mid  the  veil 
Of  other  years,  lean'd  the  sad  bard  that  tells  this  tale. 


And  well  they  bow'd  them  at  that  holy  place  I 
O  long,  with  generations  yet  untold. 
Shall  here  be  held  one  Sabbath  of  their  days 
By  men  Avhom  nought  had  tempted  from  their  gold, 
And  the  world's  pleasure?.     Here,  in  bands,  shall  fall 
The  father  and  his  children  —  as  at  first  — 
Till  the  worm  revels  'mid  the  capitol, 
And  dome  and  pillar  fellow  with  the  dust  — 
Till  the  faint  echo  peal  along  the  shore 
Where  her  veil'd  sun  went  down —  Trust  Liberty  no  more! 
10 


110  GRENVILLE    MELLEN. 


THE  TRUE  GLORY  OF  AMERICA. 

Italia's  vales  and  fountains, 

Though  beautiful  ye  be, 
I  love  my  soaring  mountains 

And  forests  more  than  ye  ; 
And  though  a  dreamy  greatness  rise 

From  out  your  cloudy  years, 
Like  hills  on  distant  stormy  skies, 

Seem  dim  through  Nature's  tears, 
Still,  tell  me  not  of  years  of  old. 

Of  ancient  heart  and  clime  ; 
Ours  is  the  land  and  age  of  gold, 

And  ours  the  hallow' d  time  ! 

The  jewell'd  crown  and  sceptre 

Of  Greece  have  pass'd  away ; 
And  none,  of  all  who  wept  her, 

Could  bid  her  splendor  stay. 
The  world  has  shaken  with  the  tread 

Of  iron-sandall'd  crime  — 
And,  lo !  o'ershadowing  all  the  dead, 

The  conqueror  stalks  sublime  ! 
Then  ask  I  not  for  crown  and  plume 

To  nod  above  my  land ; 
The  victor's  footsteps  point  to  doom, 

Graves  open  round  his  hand  ! 


GRENVILLE  MELLEN.  Ill 

1 

Rome  !  Avith  thy  pillar'd  palaces, 

And  sculptured  heroes  all, 
Snatch' d,  in  their  warm,  triumphal  days, 

To  Art's  high  festival ; 
Rome  !  with  thy  giant  sons  of  power. 

Whose  pathway  was  on  thrones. 
Who  built  their  kingdoms  of  an  hour 

On  yet  unburied  bones,  — 
I  would  not  have  my  land  like  thee, 

So  lofty  —  yet  so  cold  ! 
Be  hers  a  lowlier  majesty, 

In  yet  a  nobler  mould. 

Thy  marbles  —  works  of  wonder  ! 

In  thy  victorious  days, 
Whose  lips  did  seem  to  sunder 

Before  the  astonish'd  gaze  ; 
"When  statute  glared  on  statute  there. 

The  living  on  the  dead,  — 
And  men  as  silent  pilgrims  were 

Before  some  sainted  head  ! 
O,  not  for  faultless  marbles  yet 

Would  I  the  light  forego 
That  beams  when  other  lights  have  set, 

And  Art  herself  lies  low. 

O,  ours  a  holier  hope  shall  be 

Than  consecrated  bust. 
Some  loftier  mean  of  memory 

To  snatch  us  from  the  dust. 


112  G  RENVILLE    MELLEN. 

And  ours  a  sterner  art  than  this, 
Shall  fix  our  image  here,  — 

The  spirit's  mould  of  loveliness  — 
A  noble  Belvideke! 

Then  let  them  bind  with  bloomless  flowers 

The  busts  and  urns  of  old,  — 
A  fairer  heritage  be  ours, 

A  sacrifice  less  cold  ! 
Give  honor  to  the  great  and  good, 

And  wreathe  the  living  brow, 
Kindling  with  Virtue's  mantling  blood, 

And  pay  the  tribute  now  ! 

So,  when  the  good  and  great  go  down, 

Their  statues  shall  arise, 
To  crowd  those  temples  of  our  own, 

Our  fadeless  memories  ! 
And  when  the  sculptured  marble  falls. 

And  Art  goes  in  to  die. 
Our  forms  shall  live  in  holier  halls, 

The  Pantheon  of  the  sky  ! 


GRENVILLE    MELLEN.  113 


THE  BUGLE. 

O  !  WILD,  enchanting  horn  ! 
"Whose  music  up  the  deep  and  dewy  air 
Swells  to  the  clouds,  and  calls  on  Echo  there, 
Till  a  new  melody  is  born  — 

Wake,  wake  again,  the  night 
Is  bending  from  her  throne  of  beauty  down, 
With  still  stars  burning  on  her  azure  crown, 

Intense  and  eloquently  bright. 

Night,  at  its  pulseless  noon  ! 
When  the  far  voice  of  waters  mourns  in  song. 
And  some  tired  watch-dog,  lazily  and  long 

Barks  at  the  melancholy  moon. 

Hark !  how  it  sweeps  away,  (i) 
Soaring  and  dying  on  the  silent  sky. 
As  if  some  sprite  of  sound  went  wandering  by, 

With  lone  holloo  and  roundelay ! 

Swell,  swell  in  glory  out ! 
Thy  tones  come  pouring  on  my  leaping  heart, 
And  my  stirr'd  spirit  hears  thee  with  a  start 

As  boyhood's  old  remember'd  shout. 
10* 


114 


GRENA1LLE    MELLEN. 


0  !  havo  ye  liearcl  that  peal, 
From  sleeping  city's  moon-bathed  battlements, 
Or  from  the  guarded  field  and  warrior  tents, 

Like  some  near  breath  around  you  steal  ? 

Or  have  ye  in  the  roar 
Of  sea,  or  storm,  or  battle,  heard  it  rise, 
Shriller  than  eagle's  clamor,  to  the  skies, 

Where  wings  and  tempests  never  war  ? 

Go,  go  —  no  other  sound, 
No  music  that  of  air  or  earth  is  born. 
Can  match  the  mighty  music  of  that  horn. 

On  midnight's  fathomless  profound  ! 


AN   EVENING  SCENE. 

SUGGESTED   BY  A  PICTURE   BY  WASHINGTON   ALLSTON. 

The  tender  twilip;lit  with  a  crimson  cheek 

Leans  on  the  breast  ol'Evc.    The  wayward  wind 

Ilath  folded  lier  fleet  pinions,  and  gone  down 

To  slumber  by  tlie  darkcn'd  woods  —  the  herds 

Ilave  left  their  pastures,  where  the  sward  grows  green 

And  lofty  by  the  river's  sedgy  brink, 

And  slow  are  winding  home,    llark,  from  afar 

Their  tinkling  bells  sound  through  the  dusky  glade 

And  forest  openings,  with  a  pleasant  sound ; 

While  answering  Kcho,  from  the  distant  hill 

Sends  back  tlie  music  of  the  herdsman's  horn. 

How  tenderly  the  trembling  light  yet  plays 

O'er  the  far-waving  foliage !    Day's  last  blush 

Still  lingers  on  the  billowy  waste  of  leaves, 

With  a  strange  beauty— like  the  golden  flush 

That  haunts  the  ocean,  when  the  day  goes  by. 

Methinks,  whene'er  earth's  wearying  troubles  pass 

Like  winter  shadows  o"er  the  peaceful  mind, 

'  Twere  sweet  to  turn  from  life,  and  pass  abroad, 

AVith  solemn  footsteps,  into  Nature's  vast 

And  happy  palaces,  and  lead  a  life 

Of  peace  in  some  green  paradise  like  this. 


a 


ISAAC    M'LELLAN. 

AGE,   43   TEAKS. 

Is.\.\c  McLELL^iX,  is  a  son  of  the  late  Isaac  McLellan,  Esq.,  of 
Portland,  where  he  was  born  on  the  twentieth  day  of  April,  1811. 
When  quite  young,  his  parents  removed  -nith  laim  to  Boston,  m  which 
city  and  \icinity  he  has  since  resided.  His  early  education  was  re- 
ceived at  the  PhiUips  Academy,  in  the  to-mi  of  Andover,  Mass.  From 
this  school  he  entered  Bowdoin  College,  and  graduated  in  the  class  of 
1826.  He  then  retimied  to  Boston,  where  he  pursued  the  study  of 
the  law  for  some  time,  and  on  being  admitted  to  the  '  Suflblk.  Bar,'  in 
1830,  opened  a  law-office,  and  commenced  practice  in  that  city. 
For  some  years  past  he  has  done  but  little  professional  business,  de- 
voting his  time  and  talent  mostly  to  literature,  and  agricultural  pm'- 
suits.  He  now  resides  at  Dorchester,  a  few  miles  out  of  Boston, 
where  he  has  a  beautiful  and  tastefully  arranged  country  residence. 
Here  he  can  enjoy  the  sweets  of  poesy,  and  the  comforts  of  life,  amid 
blooming  flowers,  Ava^•ing  trees,  and  fresh  cool  air,  a  privilege  enjoyed 
by  but  few  of  our  literary  men,  the  most  of  whom  are 

"  Dwellers  iu  the  crowded  city, 

'Mid  its  dust,  and  noise  and  heat." 

Mr.  INIcLeUan  made  his  first  appearance  before  the  public,  as  a  prom- 
inent Mi-iter,  while  a  student  in  Bowdoin  College.  He  was  at  that 
time  a  regular  contributor  to  '  Knapp's  Boston  ^Magazine,'  and  to  the 
'New-York  Literary  Gazette,'  a  well  established  and  popular  journal, 
then  edited  by  "William  C.  Bryant,  the  poet.  Li  1830,  wliile  practic- 
ing law  in  Boston,  he  became  associated  with  the  '  Boston  Daily  Pat- 


118 


ISAAC    M  LELLAN. 


riot,'  Avhicli  he  conducted  \nth  great  ability.  He  was  also,  at  differ^ 
cnt  periods,  connected  vith  other  Boston  journals  and  magazines. 
His  first  volume  of  poems  a])peared  in  183G,  under  the  title  of 
'  The  Fall  of  the  Indian,  and  other  Poems' ;  and  two  years  later,  in 
1838,  'The  Year,  and  other  Poems' ;  and  in  1843,  a  third  volume  of 
poems,  entitled  '  Mount  Auburn.'  Many  of  the  poems  contained  in 
these  volumes  were  -written  by  the  author,  during  College  lile,  and 
were  first  published  in  '  Knai)j)'s  Boston  jNIagazine,'  and  the  '  Nev.'- 
York  Literary  Gazette.'  In  1837,  he  pronomiced  a  Poem  before  the 
'Plu  Beta  Kappa '  of  Bowdoin  College ;  and  in  1839,  went  to  England, 
where  he  spent  some  time,  and  fi-om  thence  made  an  extended  tour 
through  France,  Germany,  Italy,  also  visiting  Egypt  and  Sjria.  ^Vhile 
making  tliis  tour  he  contributed  a  series  of  very  interesting  letters  to 
the  '  Boston  Daily  Coiu-icr,'  under  the  head  of '  Foreign  Travels,'  and 
retiu-ned  to  the  United  St;;tes  after  an  absence  of  two  years,  and  re- 
newed the  practice  of  law  in  Boston.  As  a  poet,  Mr.  McLellan  has 
attained  a  high  reputation,  and  is  placed  in  the  ranks  of  oiu*  most  cele- 
brated poets.  We  regret  to  saj",  however,  that  liis  later  poems  are 
evidently  throvvn  off  in  a  hurry,  and  with  little  study.  But  few  of 
them  evince  the  careful  finish  that  beautifies  his  earlier  productions. 
He  is  still  adding  to  liis  established  reputation  by  contibuting  to  a  few 
of  the  select  and  leading  Magazines  now  pubHshed. 


ISAAC  m'lelean.  119 


THE  NOTES  OF  THE  BIRDS. 

Well  do  I  love  those  various  harmonies 
That  ring  so  gaily  in  spring's  budding  woods, 
And  in  thickets,  and  green,  quiet  haunts. 
And  lonely  copses  of  the  summer-time, 
And  in  red  autumn's  ancient  solitudes. 

If  thou  art  pain'd  with  the  world's  noisy  stir, 
Or  crazed  with  its  mad  tumult,  and  weigh'd  down 
With  any  of  the  ills  of  human  life ; 
If  thou  art  sick  and  weak,  or  mournest  at  the  loss 
Of  brethren  gone  to  that  far  distant  land 
To  which  we  all  do  pass,  gentle  and  poor, 
The  gayest  and  the  gravest,  all  alike ; 
Then  turn  into  the  peaceful  woods,  and  hear 
The  thrilling  music  of  the  forest-birds. 

How  rich  the  varied  choir !     The  unquiet  finch 
Calls  from  the  distant  hollows,  and  the  wren 
Uttereth  her  sweet  and  mellow  pliant  at  times. 
And  the  thrush  mourneth  where  the  kalmia  hangs 
Its  crimson-spotted  caps,  or  chirps  half  hid 
Amid  the  lowly  dogAvood's  snowy  flowers, 
And  the  blue  jay  flits  by,  from  tree  to  tree. 
And,  spreading  its  rich  pinions,  fills  the  ear 
With  its  shrill  sounding  and  unearthly  cry. 

With  the  sweet  airs  of  spring,  the  robin  comes  ; 
And  in  her  simple  song  there'  seems  to  gush 
A  strain  of  sorrow  when  she  visiteth 


120 


ISAAC  M  LELLAN. 


Ilcr  last  year's  witlicr'd  nest.     But  when  the  gloom 
Of  the  deep  twilight  falls,  she  takes  her  perch 
Upon  the  rcd-stemm'd  hazel's  slender  twig, 
That  overhangs  the  brook,  and  suits  her  song 
To  the  slow  rivulet's  incessant  chime. 

In  the  last  days  of  autumn,  when  the  corn 
Lies  sweet  and  yellow  in  the  harvest-field, 
And  the  gay  company  of  reapers  bind 
The  bearded  wheat  in  sheaves,  —  then  peals  abroad 
The  blackbird's  merry  chant.     I  love  to  hear, 
Bold  plunderer,  thy  mellow  burst  of  song 
Float  from  thy  watch-place  on  the  mossy  tree 
Close  at  the  corn-field  edge. 

Lone  whip-poor-will. 
There  is  much  sweetness  in  thy  fitful  hymn, 
Heard  in  the  drowsy  watches  of  the  night. 
Ofttimes,  when  all  the  village  lights  are  out, 
And  the  wide  air  is  still,  I  hear  thee  chant 
Thy  hollow  dirge  like  some  recluse  who  takes 
His  lodging  in  the  wilderness  of  woods. 
And  lifts  his  anthem  when  the  world  is  still  : 
And  the  dim,  solemn  night,  that  brings  to  man 
And  to  the  herds,  deep  slumbers,  and  sweet  dews 
To  the  red  roses  and  the  herbs,  doth  find 
No  eye,  save  thine,  a  watcher  in  her  halls. 
I  hear  thee  oft  at  midnight,  when  the  thrush 
And  the  green,  roving  linnet  are  at  rest, 
And  the  blithe,  twittering  swallows  have  long  ceased 
Their  noisy  notes,  and  folded  up  their  wings. 

Far  up  some  brook's  still  course,  whose  current  mines 
The  forest's  blackcn'd  roots,  and  whose  green  marge 
Is  seldom  visited  by  human  foot, 


ISAAC  m'lellan.  121 


The  lonely  heron  sits,  and  harshly  breaks 
The  Sabbath-silence  of  the  wilderness  : 
And  you  may  find  her  by  some  reedy  pool, 
Or  brooding  gloomily  on  the  time-stain'd  rock, 
Beside  some  misty  and  far-reaching  lake. 

Most  awful  is  thy  deep  and  heavy  boom. 
Gray  watcher  of  the  waters  !     Thou  art  king 
Of  the  blue  lake  ;  and  all  the  winged  kind 
Do  fear  the  echo  of  thine  angry  cry. 
How  bright  thy  savage  eye  !     Thou  lookest  down 
And  seest  the  shining  fishes  as  they  glide  ; 
And,  poising  thy  gray  wing,  thy  glossy  beak 
Swift  as  an  arrow  strikes  its  roving  prey. 
Ofttimes  I  see  thee,  through  the  curling  mist, 
Dart,  like  a  spectre  of  the  night,  and  hear 
Thy  strange,  bewildering  call,  like  the  wild  scream 
Of  one  whose  life  is  perishing  in  the  sea. 

And  now,  wouldst  thou,  O  man,  delight  the  ear 
With  earth's  delicious  sounds,  or  charm  the  eye 
With  beautiful  creations  ?     Then  pass  forth, 
And  find  them  midst  those  many-color'd  birds 
That  fill  the  glowing  woods.     The  richest  hues 
Lie  in  their  splendid  plumage,  and  their  tones 
Are  sweeter  than  the  music  of  the  lute, 
Or  the  harp's  melody,  or  the  notes  that  gush 
So  thrillingly  from  Beauty's  ruby  lip. 


11 


100 


ISAAC    M  LELLAN. 


THE  FIELDS  OF  WAR. 

They  rise,  by  stream,  and  yellow  shore. 

By  mountain,  moor,  and  fen  ; 
By  weedy  rock,  and  torrent  hoar, 

And  lonesome  forest-glcn  ! 
From  many  a  woody  moss-grown  mound, 

Start  forth  a  war-worn  band, 
As  Avhen  of  old  they  caught  the  sound, 
Of  hostile  arms,  and  closed  around  — 

To  guard  their  native  land. 


Hark  !  to  the  clanging  horn  — 
Hark,  to  the  rolling  drum  ! 

Arms  glitter  in  the  flash  of  morn  — 

The  hosts  to  battle  come  ! 

The  serried  files,  the  plumed  troop 
Are  marshal'd  once  again, 

Along  the  Hudson's  mountain-group. 
Along  the  Atlantic  main ! 

On  Bunker,  at  the  dead  of  night, 

I  seem  to  see  the  raging  fight. 

The  burning  town,  the  smoky  height, 

The  onset,  —  the  retreat ! 
And,  down  the  banks  of  Brandywine, 
I  see  the  leveled  bayonets  shine ; 
And  lurid  clouds  of  battle  twine, 

Where  struggling  columns  meet. 


ISAAC  m'lellan.  123 


Yorktown  and  Trenton  blaze  once  more  ; 
And,  b)-  the  Delaware's  frozen  sbore, 
The  hostile  guns  at  midnight  roar, 

The  hostile  shouts  arise. 
The  snows  of  Valley-Forge  grow  red, 
And  Saratoga's  field  is  spread 
With  heaps  of  undistinguished  dead, 

And  filled  with  dying  cries  ! 


'Tis  o'er ;  the  battle-shout  has  died 
By  oce"cin,  stream,  and  mountain-side  ; 
And  the  bright  harvest,  far  and  wide. 

Waves  o'er  the  blood-drenched  field. 
The  rank  grass  o'er  it  greenly  grows  — 
And  oft,  the  upturning  shares  disclose 
The  buried  arms  and  bones  of  those  ■ 

Who  fell,  but  would  not  yield  ! 

Time's  rolling  chariot  hath  ejffaced 
The  very  hillocks,  where  were  placed 
The  bodies  of  the  dead  in  haste, 

Who  closed  the  furious  fight. 
The  ancient  fort  and  rampart-mound 
Long  since  have  settled  to  the  ground, 

On  Bunker's  famous  height  — 
And  the  last  relics  of  the  brave 
Are  sunken  to  oblivion's  grave. 


124 


ISAAC    m'lELLAN. 


AUTUMN. 

'Round  Anfiinin's  mmildcrinfr  urn, 
l^oud  nioiinis  the  cliill  and  cliocrlcs.s  gale, 
When  nijihtfiill  shades  the  (|Uiet  vale. 

The  stars  in  beauty  burn.  —  Longfellow. 

• 

Now,  in  the  fading  woods,  the  Autumn  blast 
Chants  its  old  hymn,  —  a  melancholy  sound  ! 

And  look  !  the  yellow  leaves  are  dropping  fast, 
And  earth  looks  bleak  and  desolate  around. 

The  flowers  have  lost  their  glorious  scent  and  bloom, 
And  shiver  now  as  flies  the  tempest  by ; 

To  some  far  clime  hath  flown  the  wild  bird's  plume, 
To  greener  woods,  and  some  serener  sky. 

The  reaper's  sheaf  hath  now  grown  white  and  thin ; 

The  bearded  wheat,  and  golden  ear  of  corn, 
The  jocund  husbandmen  have  gathered  in  ; 

'And  from  the  fields  the  seedy  hay  is  borne. 

The  orchards  all  have  showered  their  treasures  down, 
In  many  a  pile  of  crimson  and  of  gold  ; 

There  will  be  wealth  of  sparkling  price  to  crown. 
The  foamy  glass  when  the  Year's  death  is  knoll'd. 

Silent  are  these  barren-hills  !  save  when  the  tree 
Falls  'neath  the  far-off  woodman's  measur'd  stroke ; 

Or  when  the  squirrel  chatters  noisily, 

Or  carrion  crow  screams  from  the  leafless  oak. 


ISAAC  m'lellaj^^.  125 


Methinks  there's  something  sad  in  thy  decay, 
Oh  !   merry-hearted  Autumn  !  like  a  man 

"S^Tiose  head  is  in  his  prime  turned  gray, 
The  red  cheek  in  a  little  hour  made  wan. 

Poet !  doth  no  regrets  o'ercast  thy  dream, 
To  see  the  good  old  Autumn  thus  depart  ? 

And  gloom  fast  darkening  Summer's  golden  gleam, 
E'en  as  afflictions  change  the  cheerful  heart. 

E'en  as  I  follow  to  his  lowly  bed, 

The  ashes  of  some  kind,  and  well-beloved  friend. 
So,  with  a  saddened  eye  and  mournful  tread, 

I  see  thee,  Autundn !  to  oblivion  tend. 

Yet  beautiful  are  thy  iast  fleeting  days, 

When  glows  the  hectic  on  thy  dying  cheek ; 

When  leaves  are  red,  clouds  bright,  and  hangs  the  haze 
In  many  a  colored  fold,  and  gaudy  streak. 

I  hear  the  voice  of  Autumn  I  the  deep  dirge 
Hymned  plaintively  within  his  ruined  hall, 

Its  solemn  sound  comes  like  the  beating  surge, 
Or  thunder  of  the  distant  water-fall ! 


IV 


126  ISAAC  m'lellan. 


NEW  ENGLAND'S  DEAD. 

Neav  England's  dead  !  New  England's  dead  ! 

On  every  hill  they  lie  ; 
On  every  field  of  strife,  made  red 

By  bloody  victory. 
Each  valley,  where  the  battle  pour'd 

Its  red  and  awful  tide, 
Beheld  the  brave  New  England  sword 

With  slaughter  deeply  dyed. 
Their  bones  are  on  the  northern  hill, 

And  on  the  southern  plain, 
By  brook  and  river,  lake  and  rill, 

And  by  the  roaring  main. 

The  land  is  holy  Avhere  they  fought. 

And  holy  where  they  fell ; 
For  by  their  blood  the  land  was  bought, 

The  land  they  loved  so  well. 
Then  glory  to  that  valiant  band, 
The  honor'd  warriors  of  the  land. 

0,  few  and  weak  their  numbers  were  — 

A  handful  of  brave  men  ; 
But  to  their  God  they  gave  their  prayer, 

And  rushed  to  battle  then. 
The  God  of  battles  heard  their  cry, 
And  sent  to  them  the  victory. 


ISAAC  m'lellan.  127 


They  left  the  ploughshare  in  the  mould, 
Their  flocks  and  herds  without  a  fold, 
The  sickle  in  the  unshorn  grain, 
The  corn,  half-garncr'd,  on  the  plain. 
And  muster'd,  in  their  simple  dress, 
For  wrongs  to  seek  a  stern  redress, 
To  right  those  wrongs,  come  weal,  or  woe, 
To  perish,  or  o'ercome  their  foe. 


'  And  where  are  ye,  O  fearless  men  ? 

And  where  are  ye  to-day  ? 
I  call :  —  the  hills  reply  again 

That  ye  have  pass'd  away  ; 
That  on  old  Bunker's  lonely  height, 

In  Trenton,  and  in  Monmouth  ground. 
The  grass  grows  green,  the  harvest  bright 

Above  each  soldier's  mound.' 


The  bugle's  wild  and  warlike  blast 

Shall  muster  them  no  more  ; 
An  army  now  might  thunder  past. 

And  they  heed  not  its  roar. 
The  starry  flag,  'neath  which  they  fought, 

In  many  a  bloody  day, 
From  their  old  graves  shall  rouse  them  not, 

For  they  have  pass'd  away. 


128  '" ' 


ISAAC    M  LELLAN. 


THE  DEATH  OF  NAPOLEON. 

Wild  was  the  niglit;  yet  a  wilder  night 

Hung  round  the  soldier's  pillow  ; 
In  his  bosom  there  waged  a  fiercer  fight 

Than  the  fight  of  the  wrathful  billow. 

A  few  fond  mourners  were  kneeling  by, 
The  few  that  his  stern  heart  cherish'd ; 

They  knew,  by  his  glaz'd  and  unearthly  eye, 
That  life  had  nearly  perish'd. 

They  knew  by  his  awful  and  kingly  look, 

By  the  order  hastily  spoken,  iJ) 
That  he  dream'd  of  days  when  the  nations  shook, 

And  the  nations'  hosts  were  broken. 

He  dream'd  that  the  Frenchman's  sword  still  slew. 
And  triumph' d  the  Frenchman's  '  eagle  ; ' 

And  the  struggling  Austrian  fled  anew,    " 
Like  the  hare  before  the  beagle. 

The  bearded  Russian  he  scourged  again. 

The  Prussian's  camp  was  routed. 
And  again,  on  the  hills  of  haughty  Spain, 

His  mighty  armies  shouted. 


ISAAC  m'lellan.  129 


Over  Egypt's  sands,  over  Alpine  snows, 
At  the  pyramids,  at  the  mountain, 

Where  the  wave  of  the  lordly  Danube  flows. 
And  by  the  Italian  fountain,- 

On  the  snowy  cliffs,  where  mountain  streams 
Dash  by  the  Switzer's  dwelling, 

He  led  again,  in  his  dying  dreams, 
His  hosts,  the  broad  earth  quelling. 

Again  Marengo's  field  was  won, 

And  Jena's  bloody  battle  ; 
Again  the  world  was  overrun, 

Made  pale  at  his  cannons'  rattle. 

He  died  at  the  close  of  that  darksome  day, 

A  day  that  shall  live  in  story  : 
In  the  rocky  land  they  placed  his  clay, 

'  And  left  him  alone  in  his  glory.' 


130  ISAAC  m'lellan. 


JUNE. 

"With  sunny  smiles  and  showery  tears 
The  soft,  young  June-day  morn  appears  ; 
Above  each  twisting  old  tree-root, 

Above  the  verdurous  springing  grass, 
Above  the  green  sward's  tender  shoot 

Thy  dancing  footsteps  pass. 
Thy  clear  eye  swims  in  liquid  light, 

Thy  golden  tresses  unbound  flow, 
Thy  gay  voice  ringeth  with  delight, 

Thy  cheeks  with  healthful  beauty  glow. 

Sweet  June  !  with  thy  fair  forehead  bound 
With  dewy  wild-flowers,  and  with  roses  crown'd, 

I  love  thee  well. 
Deep  in  the  heart  of  man,  all  o'er  the  earth|^ 
Thy  presence  spreads  a  lively  tone  of  mirth, 

A  soft,  deep  spell.  ' 

The  newly-budded  groves  repeat  thy  call 

With  joy  through  all  their  thick  arcades; 
And  the  hoarse-plunging  waterfall 

Rejoices  in  its  dim,  primeval  shades. 


SHAKSPEARE'S   TOMB. 


'    Eash  Man !  —  Forbear! 
Thou  wilt  not  surely  tread 
On  the  anointed  head 
Of  him  that  slumbereth  there! 
Wouldst  meet  the  God  of  such  as  thou, 
With  tliat  unstartled  brow! 
With  covered  liead  and  covered  feet! 
Where  William  Shakspeare  used  to  meet 
His  God, 
Uncovered  and  unshod. 
In  prayer! 
Thou  wilt  not  surely  venture  where 
But  sleeps  the  awful  dead, 
With  this  irreverent  air, 
And  that  alarmin;^  tread. 
What,  lio? 
Beware ! 
The  very  dust,  below 
The  haughty  dead,  will  make 
The  walls  about  thee  shake, 
If  that  uplifted  heel. 
Shod  as  it  is  with  steel, 
Should  fall  on  Shakspeare's  head ! 


JOHN    N  E  A  L 

AGE,  Gl  YEARS. 


John  Neal,  Esq.,  also  kno^\-n  in  the  literary  Avorld,  as  "  Jehu 
O'Cataract,"  was  born  in  the  city  of  Portland,  August  the  twenty- 
fifth,  1793.  La  a  note  he  informs  us  that  he  is  a  graduate  of  no 
College,  bemg  a  self-educated  man,  which  reflects  great  credit 
upon  his  perseverance,  and  success  in  literary  acquii'ements.  On 
arriving  at  that  age  Avhich  frees  the  young  man  fi-oni  parental  bon- 
dage, Mr.  Neal  removed  to  Baltimore,  and  soon  after  entered  into 
copartnership  with  John  Pierpont,  now  kno^vn  as  Rev.  John  Pier- 
pont,  the  poet,  but  not  meeting  Avith  success,  they  abandoned  mercan- 
tile pursuits,  and  chose  the  more  hazardous  ones  of  literature,  in  which, 
however,  they  were  abundantly  successful.  His  first  articles  appeared 
in  the  "The  Portico,"  a  Southern  monthly  Magazine.  In  1818 
"  Keep  Cool,  a  Novel,"  his  first  work,  made  its  first  appearance,  fol- 
lowed the  succeeding  year  by  "  The  Battle  of  Niagara,  and  other  Po- 
ems," also  "  Otho,  a  Tragedy",  m  1821,  "  Allen's  History  of  the  Ame- 
rican Revolution,"  to  wliich  he  contributed  largely;  in  1822,  "Logan, 
a  Novel,"  which  from  its  great  popularity  was  reprinted,  and  had  an 
extensive  sale  in  England.  This  was  followed  by  "Seventy-Six," 
said  to  have  been  the  most  popular  of  Mr.  Neal's  works.  Li  1823, 
he  pubHshed  "  Randolph,"'  also,  "  Errata,  or  the  AVorks  of  Will 
Adams."  During  his  sojourn  in  France  and  England,  whither  he  went 
in  1824, he  published  "Brother  Jonathan,  a  Novel,"  and  also  contrib- 
uted many  able  articles  to  Blackwood's  and  other  jNIagazines,  among 
which  were  "  The  Five  American  Presidents  and  theii-  Rival  Candi- 
dates," an  article  that  attracted  a  great  deal  of  attention,  and  brought 
its  author  into  distmguished  notice.     On  liis  retm-n,  in  1828,  to  Port- 

12 


'^1^ 


134  JOHN    NEAL. 


land,  Mr.  Neal  commenced  his  Novel  of  "  llachel  Dyer,"  which  ap- 
peared during  that  jcar.  "  Bcntham's  ^Morals  and  Legislation,"  " The 
Down  Easters," "Authorship,"  andaMork  on  "SpirituaHsm,"  have  since 
appeared;  also,  numerous  contributions  to  the  leacUng  Magazines. 
Since  that  time,  Mr,  Neal  has  devoted  himself  more  particularly 
to  liis  profession,  the  practice  of  huv,  at  Portland,  and  has  acquired  a 
considerable  fortmic,  -which  he  is  now  enjo)ing.  Dr.  Griswold,  in  liis 
"  Poets  and  Poetry  of  America,"  has  the  followhig  notes  m  regard  to 
Mr.  Neal:— 

"  Li  a  note  in  '  Blackstone's  Magazine,'  Mr.  Neal  says  he  WTote 
'  Randolph  '  m  tliiity-six  days,  with  an  mterval  of  about  a  week 
between  the  two  volmnes,  m  wliich  he  wrote  notliing ;  '  Errata  '  in 
less  than  thiity-nine  days ;  and  '  Seventy-Six '  in  twenty-seven  days. 
Dming  this  time  he  was  engaged  m  professional  duties,  tnd  they  were 
written  in  the  leism'e  and  idle  hom's  of  a  lawyer.' 

"When  Mr.  Neal  hved  in  Baltimore,  he  went  one  evening  to  the 
rooms  of  Pierpont,  and  read  to  him  a  poem  wliich  he  had  just  com- 
I)leted.  The  author  of  '  Aii's  of  Palestme,'  was  always  a  nice  critic, 
and  he  fi'ankly  pointed  out  the  fiiults  of  the  poem.  Neal  promised 
to  revise  it  and  submit  it  agam  on  the  following  mornhig.  At  the 
time  appointed  he  repahed  to  the  apartment  of  his  friend,  and  read 
to  liim  a  new  poem  of  three  or  four  hundred  hues ;  he  had  tried  to 
imj)rove  liis  lii'st  attempt,  but  faiUng  to  do  so,  had  chosen  a  new  sub- 
ject, a  new  measm-e,  and  produced  an  enthely  new  work,  before  he 
had  retired  to  sleep.     True  jioetry  is  never  so  written." 

These  notes  illustrate  the  energy  and  go-ahead-itiveness  of  Mr. 
Neal.  He  cannot  bear  to  have  any  thhig  obstruct  his  path,  and  if  he 
cannot  force  his  way  through,  he  chooses  the  quicker  mode  of  break- 
ing a  new  road  aromid.  The  rapidity  with  wliich  his  works  were 
written,  injured  their  permanent  popularity,  to  secure  which  they 
should  be  carefully  re-\ised  and  re-issued.  The  absence  of  a  finished 
education,  also,  detracted  much  fi-om  their  merit.  Tliis  fault  could 
also  be  remedied. 


JOHN   NEAL.  135 


THE  BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 

AN    EXTRACT.  (/() 

And  there  tlie  stranger  stays  :  beneath  that  oak, 

Whose  shattered  majesty  hath  felt  the  stroke 

Of  heaven's  own  thunder  —  yet  it  proudly  heaves 

A  giant  sceptre,  wreathed  with  blasted  leaves,  — 

As  though  it  dared  the  elements,  and  stood 

The  guardian  of  that  cot,  the  monarch  of  that  wood. 

Beneath  its  venerable  vault  he  stands  : 

And  one  might  think,  who  saw  his  outstretch' d  hands, 

That  something  more  than  soldiers  e'er  may  feel, 

Had  touch'd  him  with  its  holy,  calm  appeal : 

That  yonder  wave  —  the  heaven — the  earth  —  the  air 

Had  call'd  upon  his  spirit  for  her  prayer. 

His  eye  goes  dimly  o'er  the  midnight  scene : 

The  oak —  the  cot  —  the  wood  —  the  faded  green  — 

The  moon  —  the  sky  —  the  distant  morning  light,  — 

All,  all  are  gathering  on  his  dampen' d  sight. 

His  warrior  helm  and  plume,  his  fresh-dyed  blade, 

Beneath  a  window  on  the  turf  are  laid ; 

The  panes  are  ruddy  through  the  clambering  vines, 

And  blushing  leaves,  that  summer  intertwines 

In  warmer  tints  than  e'er  luxuriant  spring. 

O'er  flower-embosomed  roof  led  wandering. 

His  pulses  quicken  ;  for  a  rude,  old  door 

Is  opened  by  the  wind ;  he  sees  the  floor, 


136 


JOHN    NEAL. 


Strcw'd  with  white  sand,  on  which  he  used  to  trace 

His  boyhood's  battles,  and  assign  a  phicc 

To  charging  hosts,  and  give  the  Indian  yell, 

And  shout  to  hear  the  hoary  grandsire  tell 

How  he  had  fought  with  savages,  whose  breath 

He  felt  upon  his  check  like  mildew  till  his  death. 

Hark !  that  sweet  song,  how  full  of  tenderness  ! 

O,  who  would  breathe  in  this  voluptuous  press 

Of  lulling  thoughts  !   so  soothing,  and  so  low, 

Like  singing  fountains  in  their  faintest  flow  : 

It  is  as  if  some  holy,  lovely  thing. 

Within  our  very  hearts  were  murmuring. 

The  soldier  listens,  and  his  arms  arc  press'd 

In  thankfulness  ;  and  trembling  on  his  breast ; 

Now,  on  the  very  window  where  he  stands, 

Are  seen  a  clambering  infant's  rosy  hands, 

And  now,  —  ah  !  heaven  !  blessings  on  that  smile  ! 

Stay,  soldier,  stay  !  O,  linger  yet  awhile  ! 

An  airy  vision  now  appears,  with  eyes 

As  tender  as  the  weeping  skies, 

Yet  sunny  in  their  radiance,  as  that  blue 

"When  sunset  glitters  on  its  falling  dew : 

With  form  —  all  joy  and  dance  —  as  bright  and  free 

As  youthful  nymph  of  mountain  liberty, 

Or  naked  angels,  dream'd  by  poesy; 

A  blooming  infant  to  her  heart  is  press'd 

And,  ah,  a  mother's  song  is  lulling  it  to  rest. 

A  single  bound  !  our  chief  is  standing  by, 

Trembling  from  head  to  foot  Avith  ecstacy  ; 

'  Bless  thee  !  '  at  length  he  murmur'd,  '  bless  thee  love  ! 

My  wife  !  my  boy  !  '     Their  eyes  are  raised  above. 

His  soldier's  tread  of  sounding  strength  is  gone, 


JOHN  NEAL.  137 


A  choking  transport  drowns  his  manly  tone. 

He  sees  the  closing  of  that  mild,  blue  eye, 

His  bosom  echoes  to  a  faint,  low  cry. 

His  glorious  boy   springs  freshly  from  his  sleep, 

Shakes  his  thin  sun-curls,  while  his  eyebeams  leap, 

As  half  in  fear,  along  the  stranger's  dress, 

Then,  half  advancing,  yields  to  his  caress  ; 

Then  peers  beneath  his  locks,  and  seeks  his  eye, 

With  the  clear  look  of  radiant  infancy. 

The  cherub  smile  of  love,  the  azure  of  the  sky. 

The  stranger  now  is  kneeling  by  the  side 

Of  that  young  mother,  Avatching  for  the  tide 

Of  her  returning  life  :  it  comes  ;  a  glow 

Goes  faintly,  slowly,  o'er  her  cheek  and  brow : 

A  rising  of  the  gauze  that  lightly  shrouds 

A  snowy  breast,  like  twilight's  melting  clouds, 

In  nature's  pure,  still  eloquence,  betrays 

The  feelings  of  the  heart  that  reels  beneath  his  gaze. 


12* 


138 


JOHN    NEAL. 


AMBITION. 

I  LOVED  to  hear  the  war-horn  cry, 

And  panted  at  the  drum's  deep  roll ; 
And  held  my  breath,  when  —  flaming  high' 
I  saw  our  starry  banners  fly, 
As  challenging  the  haughty  sky  ; 

They  went  like  battle  o'er  my  soul  : 
For  I  was  so  ambitious  then, 
I  burn'd  to  be  the  slave  —  of  men. 

I  stood  and  saw  in  the  morning  light, 
A  standard  swaying  far   and  free  ; 
And  loved  it  like  the  conquering  flight 
Of  angels  floating  wide  and  bright, 
Above  the  stars,  above  the  fight 

Where  nations  warred  for  liberty : 
And  thought  I  heard  the  battle-cry 
Of  trumpets  in  the  hollow  sky. 

I  sailVl  upon  the  dark-blue  deep, 

And  shouted  to  the  eagle  soaring ; 
And  hung  me  from  a  rocking  steep, 
When  all  but  spirits  were  asleep  : 
And  O,  my  very  soul  would  leap 

To  hear  the  gallant  waters  roaring  : 
For  every  sound  and  shape  of  strife 
To  me  was  but  the  breath  of  life. 


JOHN    NEAL.  139 


THE  BIRTH  OF  A  POET. 

Ox  a  blue  summer  night. 
When  the  stars  were  asleep, 
Like  gems  of  the  deep. 
In  their  drowsy  light ; 

While  the  newly-mown  hay 
On  the  green  earth  lay, 
And  all  that  came  near  it  went  scented  away. 

From  a  lone,  woody  place 

There  look'd  out  a  face, 

With  large,  blue  eyes. 

Like  the  wet,  warm  skies, 
Brim  full  of  water  and  light ; 

A  profusion  of  hair 

Flashing  out  in  the  air, 
And  a  forehead  alarmingly  bright ! 

'Twas  the  head  of  a  poet !     He  grew 
As  the  sweet,  strange  flowers  of  the  wilderness  grow. 
In  the  dropping  of  natural  dew, 
Unheeded  —  alone  — 
Till  his  heart  had  blown  — 
As  the  sweet,  strange  flowers  of  the  wilderness  blow  ! 


140  JOHN    NEAL. 


Till  every  thought  wore  a  changeable  strain, 
Like  flowcr-leavcs  wet  with  the  sunset  rain : 
A  proud  and  passionate  boy  was  he, 
Like  all  the  children  of  Poesy ; 
"With  a  haughty  look,  and  a  haughty  tread, 
And  something  awful  about  his  head ; 
With  wonderful  eyes, 
Full  of  woe  and  surprise,  — 

Like  the  eyes  of  them  that  can  see  the  dead. 
Looking  about. 
For  a  moment  or  two,  he  stood, 
On  the  shore  of  the  mighty  wood  ; 
Then  ventured  out. 
With  a  bounding  step  and  a  joyful  shout, 
The  brave  sky  bending  o'er  him  ! 
The  broad  sea  all  before  him ! 


PARE-THEE  WELL. 


Ate,  be  it  so!    The  clotuls  around  me  bending, 
Thy  sunnier  lot  in  life  must  never  shade: 

Hopes  withered  wishes  on  the  heart  descending, 
Must  never  cause  tliat  smiling  lip  to  fade; 

Enougli  that  we  Iiave  met,  thouijh  sad  the  parting- 
Enough,  if  I  have  shrined  within  thy  heart 

One  simple  thought  — ah,  but  one  lingering  teeling  — 
With  which,  without  a  sigh,  thou  wouldst  not  part. 

Then  fare-thee-well !  whate'er  the  fate  betiding— 

Whate'er  of  grief,  or  joy,  may  chance  to  me — 
Oh,  may  Love's  rainbow  ever  o'er  thee  bending, 

Hallow  a  life  of  bright  tranquillity. 
And,  when  of  me  all  memory  hath  perished. 

If  chance  —  as  chance  it  may  — thou  hear'st  my  name, 
Think  '  tis  of  one  whose  thoughts  of  thee  are  cherished — 

Who  —  dead  to  love  —  had  lived  alone  for  fame. 


^EDMUNDFLAGG. 

AGE,  39  YEARS. 

Hon.  Edmitxd  Flagg  is  the  only  son  of  the  late  Edmund  Flagg, 
of  Chester,  N.  H.,  and  was  born  in  the  to\Mi  of  "Wiscasset,  on  the 
twenty-fourth  day  of  November,  1815.    He  graduated  -with  distinction 
at  BoAvdom  College,  in  the  class  of  1835,  and  immediately  went  West 
with  his  mother  and  sister,  jjassing  the  winter  at  Louis\ille,  teach- 
ing the  classics  to  a  few  boys,  and  contributing  largely  to  Prentice's 
'  Louis\ille  Journal.'    The  summer  of  1836,  he  passed  in  wandermg 
over  the  expansive  prau'ies  of  Ilhnois  and  ^Nlissoui'i,  writing  '  Sketches 
of  a  Traveller,'  for  the  '  LouisAille  Journal,'  which  were  afterwards 
published  in  a  work  entitled  '  The  Far  West.'     Dm-ing  the  succeechng 
fall  and  winter,  Mr.  Flagg  read  law  with  the  Hon.  Hamilton  Gamble, 
now  Judge  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  Missouri,  and  commenced  practice 
in  the  Com-ts.     In  1838,  he  edited  the   '  St.  Louis  Daily  Commercial 
Bulletm,'  and  during  that  fall,  published  '  The  Far  West,'  in  two  vol- 
umes, from  the  press  of  the  Harpers.     In  December,  he  became 
connected  with  George  D.  Prentice,  Esq.,  in  conductmg  '  The  Louis- 
nlle  Literary  News-Letter,'  but  on  account  of  ill  health,  in  the  follow- 
ing spring,  he  accepted  an  in\itation  to  practice  law  Anth  the  Hon. 
Seargent  S.  Prentiss,  of  Vicksburg,  Miss.     While  here  Mr.  Flagg  was 
severely  wounded  in  a  duel  with  the  noted  desperado  and  duelist.  Dr. 
James   Hagan,    editor   of    the  'Vicksburg   Sentinel,'  and   who  was 
killed  in  a  duel  two  years  after.     Li  1842,  he  conducted  the  '  Gazette,' 
published  at  Marietta,  Ohio,  and  at  the  sametime  -nTOte  two  novels, — 
'  Carrero ;  or,  The  Prime  Minister,"  and  '  Francis  of  Valois,'  Avhich 
were  published  in  New-York.     In  1844  and  5,  he  conducted  the  '  St. 
Louis  Evening  Gazette ;'  and  for  several  years  succeeding  was  '  Re- 
porter of  the  Com-ts,'  of  St.  Louis  Coimty.    In  the  meantime,  he  pub- 


144  *     EDMUND    FLAGG. 


lislicd  several  prize  novels,  among  which  were  '  The  Howard  Queen,' 
'  Blanche  of  Artois,  and  also  several  dramas,  that  were  successfully 
])roducedni  the  theatres  of  St.  Louis,  Louisville,  Cincimiati,  and  New- 
York. 

Li  the  spring  of  184cS,  ^Ir.  Flagg  went  out  as  Secretary  to  the 
lion.  lulward  A.  llamiegan,  American  ISIuiister  to  Berlin,  which  af- 
forded him  an  opportmiity  to  travel  over  England,  Germany  and 
France.  On  his  retiu-n,  he  again  located  at  St.  Louis,  and  resumed 
the  practice  of  law.  Li  18<j0,  he  received  the  appointment  of  Consid 
for  the  Port  of  Venice,  under  the  administration  of  President  Fillmore. 
He  \'isited  England  and  Wales,  and  travelled  through  central  Em-ope, 
to  Venice,  and  entered  upon  the  duties  of  his  consulate,  corresponding 
in  the  meantime  with  several  of  the  New-York  Journals.  Li  the  fall 
of  18.31,  he  visited  Florence,  Home,  Naples,  and  the  other  Italian  cit- 
ies, and  in  November,  embarked  at  Marseilles,  for  New-Orleans,  and 
on  liis  arrival  jjroceeded  to  St.  Louis,  and  took  charge  of  the  Demo- 
cratic organ  at  that  place,  and  conducted  it  through  the  Presidential 
canvass  of  1852.  The  following  year,  his  last  work  was  published  in 
New-York,  in  two  illustrated  volumes,  entitled  '  Venice,  The  City  of 
the  Sea,'  and  comprises  the  history  of  that  celebrated  capital,  from  the 
mvasion  by  Napoleon,  in  1797,  to  its  capitulation  to  Radetzky,  after 
its  renovation  and  the  terrible  seige  of  1848  and  49.  A  third  volume, 
to  be  entitled  '  North  Italy  since  1849,'  is,  we  miderstand,  nearly 
ready  for  pul)lication.  In  18.53  and  "o4,  a  scries  of  elegant  illustrated 
works,  issued  in  numbers,  were  published  by  Meyer,  in  New-York, 
mider  the  title  of  the  '  United  States  Illustrated.'  The  larger  portion 
of  the  Sketches  in  these  works,  referring  to  the  West,  were  contribut- 
ed by  jMr.  Flagg.  He  is  now  Chief  Clerk  of  a  Bureau  in  the  Depart- 
ment of  State,  at  Washington,  wliich  oifice  he  has  filled  for  several 
years.  As  a  prose  writer,  Mr.  Flagg  takes  a  liigh  rank  in  the  htera- 
ture  of  our  country,  and  is  destined  to  achieve  a  fame  that  his  native 
State  may  well  be  proud  to  honor.  As  a  poet,  he  occupies  a  promi- 
nent position  among  our  second  class  poets. 


EDMUND    FLAGG. 


145 


THE  CLOSE  OF  THE  YEAR. 


It  is  the  night's  lone  hoiir  ! 
The  trooping  winds  have  ceased  their  wint'ry  -svail 
And,  quietly,  like  sleeping  seraphim, 
Lie  pillow'd  on  the  dim  and  distant  cloud. 
The  many  stais  like  the  weird  warders 
Of  an  angel-host,  look  sadly  down 
From  their  far,  heavenly  homes,  in  mournful  beauty, 
On  our  world  of  sorrow  ;  and  the  placid  wave 
Heaves  to  the  presence  of  her  stately  queen, 
And  silvery  clouds  enfold  their  loosen'd  robes, 
And,  languidly,  as  Avearied  visions,  sweep 
Around  her  throne  ;  —  watching  the  death-bed, 
Of  the  dying  year,  as  fondly  as  they  watched 
His  hour  of  birth  ;  —  looking  upon  our  world 
With  the  same  calm  and  guardian  watchfulness,  — 
With  the  self-same  serene  and  holy  love, 
As  though  they  ne'er  had  wept  o'er  scenes  of  blood. 
And  earth  had  never  known  of  desolation. 
Oh,  to  a  soul,  not  wed  to  this  dark  world,  — 
A  heart  which  yearneth  for  a  holier  sphere,  — 
There  is  a  beauty  on  Night's  queenly  brow, 
Deck'd  in  her  jewel'd  tiara  of  stars, 
Which,  with  a  power  unspeakable,  appeals  ! 
It  tells  of  wasted  years,  and  shatter'd  dreams,  — 
Of  violated  vows,  and  vanish'd  joys. 
And  shrouded  memories  ;  and,  as  we  kneel. 
The  pale,  sweet  images  around  us  rise 
13 


146 


EDMUND    FLAGG. 


Of  Mcmorj',  and  Hope,  and  Peace,  and  Youth; 
And  with  imploring  hands  beckon  lis  back, 
To  list  the  2«'ccepts  of  our  better  days. 


And  you,  ye  stars,  which  on  my  brow  pour  out 

Your  holy  light !  — Orbs  of  unearthly  glory  !  — 

Altar-fires,  before  Jehovah's  shrine 

Forever  burning  ;  or,  the  living  eyes 

Of  scraph-hosts,  that  round  his  mighty  throne, 

Veiling  their  faces,  bow^  w^hile  myriad  voices 

Shout  in  sweet  seraph-music  their  rejoicing, — 

Ye  are  the  types  of  Fate,  if  ye   are  not,  — 

As  hoary  men  of  old  have  loved  to  dream,  — 

Its  arbiters  ;  and,  on  the  giant  scroll 

Of  the  blue  pillar'd,  boundless  firmament, 

Glittering  all  o'er  with  gorgeous  heraldry,  —  ' 

Is  writ  the  record  of  another  year  ! 

Star  after  star  ceaseth  to  shine  on  high,  — 

Year  after  year  passcth  from  human  life 

And  earthly  being ! 

Another  yeae ! 
How  like  a  knell  upon  the  thoughtful  mind,  — 
How  like  a  requiem  on  the  Fancy's  ear,  — 
How  like  a  dirge  upon  the  wearied  heart, 
Sinks  the  deep  cadance  of  those  mournful  words,  — 
Another  year  hath  exed  !  —  Gone  !  —  it  is  gone  ! 
With  all  its  smiles  and  tears,  ■ —  its  woes  and  joys  ! 
Gone  with  all  its  anguish,  which  hath  wrung  the  heart ; 
Gone  with  its  rapture,  which  hath  made  earth  Heaven ; 
Its  hopes  and  dreams,  —  its  sighs  and  agonies,  — 
Its  w^eariness  and  bitterness  of  life,  — 
Its  yearnings  for  a  happier  world  to  come. 


EDMUND   FLAGG. 


147 


Spring,  with  her  forest-plume  and  em'rald  fields, 
Hath  gone,  —  and  Summer's  flowers  and  vine-leaves  ; 
Autumn,  sad  Autumn,  with  her  rainbow  woods, 
While  Winter's  stern  and  melancholy  form 
Hangs  o'er  his  harp  and  wails  the  year's  decay. 
Another  star  hath  vanish'd  from  the  sky,  — 
Another  wave  hath  broken  on  the  shore,  — 
Another  leaf  hath  quiver'd  from  the  tree 
Of  mortal  being  ;  and  their  last,  low  moan. 
Upon  the  night,  in  mystic  minstrelsy,  — 
Like  music  to  the  dreaming  slumberer,  — 
Is  dying  on  the  ear. 

The  year 
Hath  fled,  but,  upon  ev'ry  brow  its  recording 
Is  writ;  and  ev'ry  breast  hath  its  own  register 
Of  joy  and  woe.     And  human  hearts  have  bled, 
And  tears  have  flowed ;  Aff'ection  bowed  her  o'er 
The  pale,  sweet  form,  and  the  still,  marble  brow 
Where  all  —  where  all  Life's  hopes  were  garnered. 
And  Love  hath  kneel'd,  —  to  find  its  idol  clay  ! 
Ambition  soared,  —  to  sink,  —  to  soar  no  more  ! 
And  Hope  hath  waked  to  watch,  but  watched  in  vain ! 


Yet,  Love,  the  phoenix,  from  his  ashy  grave 

Again  shall  rise  !     Hope's  flowers  shall  bloom  and  wave 

Around  Despair's  dark  tomb!     Ambition's  torch, 

Rekindled  and  relumed,  more  brightly  burn  ; 

And  human  hearts  \vill  dream,  as  they  have  dreamed. 

And  they  will  bleed,  as  they  have  bled  before. 

Upon  Time's  vestal  altar  ever  flames 

His  sacrificial  fires,  consuming  hopes, 

And  joys,  and  youth  —  to  be  renew'd  no  more. 


148 


EDMUND    FLAGG. 


Through  some  deserted  chamber  of  each  breast, 
Some  phantom  shape,  —  some  spectre  ol'  the  past, - 
The  waiKl'ring  ghost  of  some  departed  joy, — 
The  troubled  spirit  of  some  happy  dream,  — 
Forever  glides  ;  and,  in  its  desolate  aisles, 
Seeketh  a  sanctuai-y  —  finding  none. 
The  year  hath  passed  !     And,  as  with  all  mankind 
And  the  fair  forms  of  Nature,  it  hath  passed 
With  nations, — kingdoms, — thrones. 

Change  after  change  ! 
Upon  all  earth,  thy  shadow  rests  ! 
On  ev'ry  land,  —  on  ev'ry  race,  thy  seal 
Is  sternly  set ;   and  change  succeedeth  change 
In  an  unending,  everlasting  round. 
One  thing  alone,  in  all  our  life,  is  sure ; 
One  thing  alone  is  changeless,  —  that  is  Death  ! 
How  doth  this  changeless  course  of  Nature  show, 
That  there  are  other,  —  brighter  worlds  than  this  ! 
That  there  are  other  beings,  —  other  laws, 
And  other  purposes,  than  cannot  be  scann'd 
By  the  dim,  darkcn'd  powers  of  human  sense  ! 

We  do  not  know  the  laws  which  rule  our  being, 
Nor  can  we  pierce  that  deep,  mysterious  veil, 
Which  shrouds  our  destiny  and  its  design. 
But  this  we  know,  —  that  as  hath  been,  will  be,  — 
The  shriek  of  sorrow,  and  the  wail  of  woe,  — 
The  knell  of  death, —  bereavement,  and  despair, — 
And  stifled  moans  of  anguish'd  human  hearts. 
The  sound  of  joy,  —  the  sigh  of  agony  ;  — 
The  veil,  the  pall,  —  the  bridal  and  the  bier. 


EDMUND   FLAGG.  149 


And  this  we  know,  —  that  God's  vast  Universe 

Is  sway'd  by  sov'reignty  unchanging, — just; 

While  all  Man's  sufferings  and  Nature's  throes 

Are  but  the  features  of  one  mighty  plan. 

But  list !     From  the  lone  turret  of  yon  sacred  Fane, 

From  which  so  oft,  in  other  years,  have  gone 

The  self-same  mournful  tones,  —  Time's  iron  tongue 

Again  —  again,  in  solemn  numbers,  tolls 

The  heavy  boom  of  a  funereal  knell ! 

The  year  is  dead  ! 

And  now,  the  midnight  hour  is  come, 

The  spirit-hosts  are  forth  !     Illusive  voices,  — 

Well-remember'd  tones  upon  the  ear 

Of  the  sad  watcher  fall ;  and  whispers  seek  him 

From  that  misty  shore  beyond  the  billows 

Of  Death's  spectral  flood  ;  and  pale,  sweet  faces, 

With  their  gaze  of  more  than  mortal  fondness, 

On  the  mystic  wave  an  instant  linger,  — 

Beck'ning  him  away  ;  then,  in  the  vapor  veil 

Which  shrouds  the  tomb,  they  melt — they  melt  forever  ! 

And  Memory,  the  great  Magician,  lifts  the  pall 

Of  the  dead  Past,  and  myriad  visions  throng 

Her  magic  halls  ;  and  all  those  visions. 

And  those  spirit-tones,  and   the  deep  meanings 

Of  that  mournful  bell  read  to  the  lonely  watcher,  — 

Ay  !  —  to  him,  —  to  us,  —  to  all  Earth's  dwellers,  — 

That,  ere  long,  Time  shall  to  each, — 

As  to  the  year  now  in  Oblivion  buried,  — 

Be  no  more  forever  ! 


13* 


150  EDMUND    FLAGG. 


i 


THE  MxVGNETIO  TELEGRAPH. 


Science, 
"With  her  twin-sister  Art,  hath  sealed  th'  Empyrean  ! 
Science,  —  like  the  dread  angel  of  th'  Apocalypse,  — 
Hath  destined  Space  and  Time  to  be  no  more  ! 
From  the  immortal  mind  now  leaps  the  thought, 
And,  yet  unspoken,  on  the  lightning's  wing 
Girdlcth  the  globe  !  — Away  —  away  fiasheth 
The  magic  line  of  thought  and  feeling  ! 
Over  land, — o'er  sea, — o'er  mountain,  stream,  and  vale,- 
Through  forest  dense,  and  darkest  wilderness,  — 
'Mid  storm  and  tempest,  fleets  the  electric  spell :  — 
Then  to  its  home,  through  earth's  deep  entrails,  speeds 
Backward  in  fiery  circuit  to  its  rest ; 
While  earth's  green  bosom  doth  itself  evolve 
Magnetic  flame  to  light  the  flashing  line  ! 
No  more  the  viewless  couriers  of  the  winds 
Are  emblems  of  the  messengers  of  mind. 
The  speed  of  sound,  —  the  speed  of  light  surpass'd,  — 
The  speed  of  thought,  —  Mind's  magnetism, — 
And  th'  omnipotent  power  of  Fancy's  flight. 
Alone  can  rival  the  electric  charm  ! 
Swifter  than  earth  upon  its  axle  whirl'd,  — 
Swifter  than  Time,  —  for  Time  itself 's  outsped, — 
More  swift  than  speech,  —  for  unembodied  thoughts, 
And  feelings  unconceived,  and  words  unformed, 


EDMUND    FLAGG.  151 


Fly  on  the  enchanted  cord  in  syllables  ! 

The  fabled  chain  connecting  Earth  with  Heaven,  — 

Its  links  may  circle  the  great  globe  itself; 

And  o'er  its  surface  weave  a  mystic  web 

Of  tissued  wire-work,  like  to  human  nerves,  — 

On  which  volition,  passion,  feeling  fly. 

Electrifying,  by  magnetic  spells. 

All  nations,  and  all  kindreds,  and  afl  tongues, — 

'Till  Commerce,  slave  no  more  to  sordid  gain, 

Shall  civilize  and  christiani'ze  a  world  ! 

Man's  mind  with  necromantic  art  hath  plucked 

The  sunbeam  from  his  home  by  magic  touch 

To  paint  his  visions  ;   and,  with  Heaven's  lightnings 

Swift  he  pens  his  thoughts,  or  telegraphs  o'er  seas. 

And  State,  and  continents,  his  secret  wish 

To  the  wide  brotherhood  of  human-kind ! 

E'en  now  —  e'en  now,  the  hoarse  Atlantic  surge 

Reverberates  from  Mississippi's  shores  ; 

And  Neptune's  trident  by  the  Sire  of  Floods 

Is  grasped' d  in  friendship  !     In  the  far-off  East, 

Lake  Erie,  from  her  iron  crag,  sends  forth 

Her  greeting  to  the  Ocean !     The  North  ! 

The  frozen  North  salutes  the  sunny  South, 

And  thy  blue  peaks,  proud  Alleghany,  shout 

Unto  the  summits  of  the  Rocky  Range  ; 

AVhile  prairie,  forest,  city,  mountain-height, 

And  the  sweet  valley  of  La  Belle  Riviere, 

Like  voice  of  many  waters,  join  their  song! 

And  the  dread  question  of  God's  ancient  seer,  — 

"  Canst  thou  send  lightnings  that  they  go  and  come. 

And  say,  —  '  Here,  —  here,  we  are  ? '  "  —  is  answer'd  ! 


152  EDMUND    FLAGG. 


THE  WITHERED  FLOWERS. 

I  KNEW  tlicy  would  perish  ! 
.Those  Jacautiful  flowers  — 
As  the  hopes  that  we  cherish 

In  youth's  sunny  bowers  :  — 
I  knew  they'd  be  faded  ! 

Though  with  fond,  gentle  care 
Their  bright  leaves  were  shaded, 

Decay  still  was  there. 

So  all  that  is  brightest 

Ever  first  fades  away, 
And  the  joys  that  leap  lightest, 

The  earliest  decay. 
The  heart  that  was  nearest, 

The  wildest  will  rove. 
And  the  friend  that  was  dearest, 

The  first  cease  to  love. 

And  the  purest,  the  noblest, 

The  loveliest — wc  know 
Have  e'er  been  the  surest, 

And  the  soonest  to  go. 
The  birds  that  sing  sweetest, 

The  flowers  most  pure. 
In  their  beauty  are  fleetest, 

In  their  fate  the  most  sure. 


EDMUND   FLAGG.  153 


Yet  still  though  thy  flowers 

Are  withered  and  gone, 
They  w-ill  live  like  some  hours 

In  memory  alone. 
In  that  hallowed  shrine,  only, 

Sleep  things  we  >vould  cherish, 
Pure,  priceless,  loved,  lonely, 

They  never  can  perish. 

Then  I'll  mourn  ye  no  more, 

Ye  pale  leaves  that  are  shed, 
Though  your  brightness  is  o'er, 

Your  perfume  is  not  fled  ; 
And  like  thine  aroma  — 

The  spirit  of  flowers  — 
Remembrance  will  hover 

O'er  the  grave  of  past  hours. 


154  EDMUND    FLAGG. 


SMILES  OFT  DECEIVE  US. 


The  saddest  lieart  oft  jjayest  seems, 

And  joins  the  merry  glee, 
While  breaking  are  its  tender  chords, 

By  griefs  we  cannot  see. 
Then  trnst  not  to  a  smiling  face, 

Or  lieart  that  merry  seems, 
For  in  that  heart  may  sorrow  be, 

Though  joy  from  out  it  beams. 

'  Frank  Geeenwood.' 


Ah,  do  not  say  the  heart  is  light, 

And  free  from  every  care, 
Because  the  eye  beams  calm  and  bright, 

And  only  peace  is  there. 
Around  the  monumental  stone 

The  gayest  flowers  may  creep  — 
The  breast  may  wither  chill  and  lone, 

Yet  smiles  the  brow  may  keep. 

Unseen  —  unknown  —  the  electric  dart 

Sleeps  in  the  rolling  cloud  — 
So  sleeps  within  the  stricken  heart 

The  grief  it  most  would  shroud. 
The  sunniest  smile  may  often  glow 

Where  sorrows  gloomiest  lower  — 
Upon  the  sky  will  hang  the  bow, 

Though  all  is  shade  and  shower. 


EDMUND   FLAGG.  155 


The  mountain-oak  oft  seems  most  sound, 

When  jielding  to  decay  — 
The  breast  may  hide  a  deadly  wound, 

Wl^le  lip  and  cheek  are  gay. 
Along  the  crushed  and  crumbling  tower 

The  ivy-leaf  may  steal  — 
So  laugh  and  jest  in  pleasure's  bower 

The  wasting  heart  conceal. 

Soft  summer's  leaves  are  fresh  and  fair, 

But  not  so  bright  are  they, 
As  when  on  Autumn's  misty  air 

The  forest-rainbows  play. 
Fair  on  the  cheek  is  beauty's  blush, 

Where  rose  and  lily  meet, 
And  yet  consumption's  hectic  flush, 
Though  sad,  is  far  more  sweet. 

'Tis  not — 'tis  not  the  clam'rous  groan  — 

The  querulous  complaint  — 
The  gushing  tear  —  the  frequent  moan 

That  speaks  the  soul's  lament. 
Sorrow's  a  proud  —  a  lonely  thing. 

And  never  stoops  to  mourn  — 
The  Spartan's  mantle  o'er  the  fang 

It  clasps,  and  bleeds  alone. 

There  oft  is  woe  which  never  weeps  — 
Tears  which  are  never  shed  — 

Deep  in  the  soul  their  fountain  sleeps, 
When  hope  and  joy  are  fled. 


156  EDMUND    FLAGG. 


Yet,  who  would  ask  the  stagnant  breast, 
Which  chills  not  —  never  glows  ? 

Who  would  not  spurn  that  waveless  rest 
Which  neither  ebbs  nor  flows  ?   , 

Then,  think  not,  though  the  brow  is  free 

From  shade  of  gloom  or  care, 
The  breast  is  as  a  summer  sea, 

And  happiness  dwells  there. 
Ah,  think  not,  though  the  sunny  glance 

Upon  the  check  may  play, 
And  on  the  lip  the  jest  may  dance. 

That  grief  is  far  aw^ay. 


ODE  TO  CHESAPEAKE  BAY. 

Tnou  Ocean  Bay ! 
Thoui,'li  now  with  sails  unftirrd, 
Collecting  from  tlie  mighty  deep, 
Over  thy  curling  waters  sweep 
The  fleets  ol  half  the  world; 
Tliere  was  a  day, 
Nor  distant  far  the  time, 
When  in  thy  solitude  sublime, 
Save  light  canoe  by  artless  savage  plied. 
No  sail  was  ever  seen  to  skim  thy  billowy  tide. 

Bright  Chesapeake  — 
Though  now  thy  shores  are  crown'd 
VVitli  grassy  lawns  and  fields  of  grain, 
That  smile  and  cheer  the  hiboring  swain, 
And  songs  go  blithely  round, 
That  well  bespeak 
How  pleasant  joys  may  flow; 
Yet  two  short  centuries  ago 
No  human  voice  was  here,  save  savage  yell. 
And  dark  upon  thy  wave  the  forest  shadows  fell. 

Mother  of  waters  — 
Thy  noble  streams  did  glide 
Beneath  a  woody  canopy, 
Through  countless  years;  and  bright  and  free, 
And  lovely  by  thy  side. 

As  beauteous  daughters, 
They  lift  their  voice  on  high. 
And  clap  their  hands  as  they  go  by 
Proud  Baltimore's  rich  monuments  and  domes, 
Columbia's  palace-halls,  and  liichmond's  patriot  homos. 


S  E  B  A   SMITH. 

AGE,  62  YEARS. 

Seba  Smith,  Esq.,  was  bom  in  the  tovm  of  Buckfield,  about  the 
middle  of  the  month  of  September,  1792.  He  -was  educated  at  Bow- 
doin  College,  and  studied  law  in  the  city  of  Portland,  where  he  was 
admitted  to  the  bar,  and  commenced  practice,  When  about  tliirty- 
tv.'o  years  old,  he  married  jSIiss  EHzabeth  Oakes  Prince,  a  beautiful 
and  accomplished  girl  of  :  ixteen,  who  had  attracted  his  attention, 
and  won  his  heart  by  her  beauty  and  precocious  talent.  He  was  at 
one  period  editor  of  the  "  Eastern  Argus,"  and  under  his  charge  it  be- 
came one  of  the  most  popular  journals  in  the  State.  He  was  also  con- 
nected mth  the  "Portland  Courier,"  for  some  time.  Soon  after  tliis  he 
removed  to  the  city  of  New-York,  and  renewed  the  practice  of  liis  pro- 
fession. He  is  verj'  -vndely  known  as  the  once  celebrated  "  Jack 
Do-\\iiing,  whose  humm-ous  letters  convulsed  the  reading  public  in  al- 
most unparalleled  mirth.  As  a  prose  writer  he  has  acquu-ed  a  very 
high  reputation ;  but  as  a  poet  stands  in  the  second  rank.  He  has 
WTitten  a  few,  and  only  a  few,  beautiful  poems,  two  of  which  we  have 
included  in  om-  selection.  ISIr.  Smith  and  his  wife,  the  distmguished 
Mrs.  E.  Oakes  Smith,  have  been  called,  and  we  think  very  correctly 
too,  the  '  HoM-itts'  of  America.  If  any  persons  are  entitled  to  tliis  en- 
\-iable  name,  they  at  least  are  foremost.  Mr.  Smith  has  published  a 
number  of  works  wliich  met  v.-ith  a  favorable  reception,  and  we  are 
happy  to  learn  that  he  has  a  vohmiein  the  press  of  J.  C.  Derby  &  Co., 
New-York,  entitled  "  Way  Down  East,  or,  Portraitures  of  Yankee 
Life,"  which,  judging  from  the  title,  will  be  one  of  thejnost  mu-th- 
provoking  and  readable  books  that  has  been  issued  for  some  time. 
A  correspondent  from  New  York,  who  has  seen  proof  sheets  of  tliis 
work,  says,  "  It  needs  but  an  announcement  to  command  an  extensive 
sale.     There  are  millions  of  hearts  in  tliis  comitry,  that  would  throb 


160 


SEBA    SMITH. 


■\vitli  dclij^ht  at  the  sight  of  a  book  from  tlic  original  '  Major  Jack 
Downing.'  The  jjress  has  been  bearing  amj)le  testimony  to  the  au- 
thor's merit  for  the  last  twenty  years."  The  New-York  Courier  and 
]*^nquirer,  in  an  article  upon  Mr.  Smith's  literary  merit,  has  the  fol- 
lowhig  exceedingly  flattering  commendation  :  —  "  There  is  no  doubt 
that  Mr.  Scba  Smith,  is  the  best  painter  of  Yankee  peculiarities 
that  ever  wrote.  He  is  true  to  natm-e,  and  never  carricatm-es,  but 
without  carriaturing,  is  most  amusing."  Notices  that  have  been  be- 
stowed upon  liis  poetical  works,  have  generally  been  unfavorable,  al- 
though some  of  them  gave  him  full  as  much  crecht  as  he  deserved. 
"  Powhatan,  a  Metrical  Romance,"  the  longest  of  Mr.  Smith's  poems, 
published  several  years  ago,  contains  a  few  fine  passages,  and  much 
that  is  mferior  poetry.     The  following  is  a  specimen  of  its  style  : 

'  Come  hither,  child,'  the  mouarch  said, 
'  And  sit  tliee  down  by  me ; 

And  I'll  tell  tliee  of  thy  motlier  dead, 

Fair  sprout  of  the  parent  tree. 

Twelve  suns  ago  she  fell  asleep. 

And  she  never  woke  again ; 

And  tliou  wast  then  tuo  young  to  weep. 

Or  to  share  thy  father's  pain. 

But  wouldst  thou  know  thy  mother's  look, 

"When  her  form  was  young  and  fair, 

Look  down  upon  the  tranquil  brook, 

And  thou'lt  see  her  picture  there. 

For  her  own  briglit  locks  of  flowing  jet, 

Are  over  thy  shoulders  hung; 

In  thy  face  her  loving  eyes  are  set, 

And  her  music  is  on  tliy  tongue. 


And  I  am  an  aged,  sapless  tree. 

That  soon  must  fall  to  the  plain; 

And  then  sliall  my  spirit,  bright  and  free, 

IJejoin  thy  mother  again. 

And  tliou.  my  child,'  —  But  here  a  sigh 

Had  reached  the  aged  chieftain's  ear; 

He  turned,  and  lo,  his  daughter's  eye 

Was  beaming  through  a  trembling  tear. 


SEBA    SMITH.  161 


THE  LITTLE  GRAVES. 

'TwAS  autumn,  and  tlie  leaves  were  dry, 

And  rustled  on  the  ground, 
And  chilly  winds  went  whistling  by 

With  low  and  pensive  sound. 

As  through  the  grave-yard's  lone  retreat, 

By  meditation  led, 
I  walked  with  slow  and  cautious  feet 

Above  the  sleeping  dead. 

Three  little  graves,  ranged  side  by  side, 

My  close  attention  drew  ; 
O'er  two  the  tall  grass  bending  sighed, 

And  one  seemed  fresh  and  new. 

As  lingering  there  I  mused  awhile 
On  death's  long,  dreamless  sleep, 

And  morning  life's  deceitful  smile, 
A  mourner  come  to  weep. 

Her  form  was  bow'd,  but  not  with  years, 
Her  words  were  faint  and  few. 

And  on  those  little  graves  her  tears 
Distilled  like  evening  dew. 


14^ 


162  SEBA    SMITH. 


A  prattling  boy,  some  "four  years  old, 
Her  trembling  hand  embraced, 

And  from  my  lieart  tlic  tale  he  told 
Will  never  be  effaced. 

'  Mamma,  now  you  must  love  me  more, 
For  little  sister's  dead  ; 
And  t'other  sister  died  before, 
And  brother  too,  you  said. 

'  Mamma,  what  made  sweet  sister  die  ? 
She  loved  me  when  we  played  : 
You  told  me,  if  I  would  not  cry. 
You'd  show  me  where  she's  laid.' 

'  'Tis  here,  my  child,  that  sister  lies, 
Deep  buried  in  the  ground  ; 
No  light  comes  to  her  little  eyes, 
And  she  can  hear  no  sound.' 

'  Mamma,  why  cant  we  take  her  up. 
And  put  her  in  my  bed  ? 
I'll  feed  her  from  my  little  cup. 
And  then  she  ivo7it  he  dead. 

'  For  sister  '11  be  afraid  to  lie 
In  this  dark  grave  to-night, 
And  she'll  be  very  cold,  and  cry 
Because  there  is  no  light.' 


SEBA    SMITH.  163 


'  No,  sister  is  not  cold,  my  child, 
For  God,  who  saw  her  die. 
As  He  look'd  down  from  Heaven  and  smil'd, 
Called  her  above  the  sky. 

'  And  then  her  spirit  quickly  fled 
To  God  by  whom  'twas  given ; 
Her  hody  in  the  ground  is  dead, 
But  sister  lives  in  Heaven.' 

'  Mamma,  wont  she  be  hungry  there, 
And  want  some  bread  to  eat? 
And  who  will  give  her  clothes  to  wear, 
And  keep  them  clean  and  neat  ? 

'  Papa  must  go  and  carry  some, 
I'll  send  her  all  I've  got, 
And  he  must  bring  sweet  sister  home, 
Mamma,  now  must  he  not  ?  ' 

'  No,  my  dear  child,  that  cannot  be  ; 
But  if  you're  good  and  true. 
You'll  one  day  go  to  her,  but  she 
Can  never  come  to  you. 

'  Let  little  childken  come  id  me,* 
Once  our  good  Saviour  said  ; 
And  in  bis  arms  she'll  always  be, 
And  God  will  giv'e  her  bread.* 


THE  SNOW  STORM. 

The  cold  winds  swept  the  mountain's  height, 

And  pathless  was  the  dreary  wild, 
And  mid  the  cheerless  hours  of  night 

A  mother  wander'd  with  her  child :  {k) 
As  through  the  drifting  snow  she  press'd, 
The  babe  was  sleeping  on  her  breast. 

And  colder  still  the  winds  did  blow, 

And  darker  hours  of  night  came  on, 
And  deeper  grew  the  drifting  snow  : 

Her  limbs  were  chill'd,  her  strength  was  gone ; 
'  O  God  !  '  she  cried,  in  accents  wild, 
'  If  I  must  perish,  save  my  child  !  ' 

She  stripp'd  her  mantle  from  her  breast, 
And  bared  her  bosom  to  the  storm, 

'And  round  the  child  she  wrapp'd  the  vest 
And  smil'd  to  think  her  babe  was  warm. 

With  one  cold  kiss,  one  tear  she  shed. 

And  sunk  upon  her  snowy  bed. 

At  dawn  a  traveller  pass'd  by, 

And  saw  her  'neath  a  snowy  veil ; 
The  frost  of  death  was  in  her  eye. 

Her  cheek  was  cold,  and  hard,  and  pale  ; 
He  moved  the  robe  from  off  the  child, 
The  babe  look'd  up  and  sweetly  smiled. 


SEBA    SMITH  165 


THE  POOL  OF  BETHESDA. 

Unto  the  holy  city  came 

Judea's  hapless  sons  and  daughters. 
The  paralytic,  blind  and  lame, 

To  seek  Bethesda's  healing  waters  — 
The  Angel  o'er  the  fountain  mov'd 

With   kindly  power  from  day  to  day  ; 
And  he  that  first  its  virtues  prov'd, 

Was  heal'd,  and  forthwith  went  his  way. 

Amid  the  throng  who  waited  there, — 

Judea's  sons  and  da^ighters,  — 
A  patient  Hebrew  many  a  year 

Had  watch'd  the  troubled  waters. 
And  often  at  the  healing  hour 

He  feebly  toward  the  fountain  bore  him, 
But  all  too  late  to  feel  its  power, 

For  one  had  always  stepped  before  him. 

A  stranger  came  and  look'd  awhile 

On  him  who  there  in  anguish  lay, 
Then  kindly  said,  with  holy  smile, 

'  Hebrew,  arise  and  go  thy  way  ! ' 
As  forth  into  the  world  that  hour, 

With  footsteps  light,  the  Hebrew  trod, 
'  I've  felt,'  he  cried,  '  the  Almighty's  power, 

I've  heard  the  voice  of  God.' 


166  SEBA   SMITH. 


YOUTH  a:nd  old  age. 

Old  age  came  down  the  steep  of  years, 

Beneath  life's  burden  bending  ; 
"With  tottering  steps  he  feebly  trod, 
And  breathing  sighs  and  prayers  to  God, 
He  met  Avith  youth  ascending. 

'  Ah,  whither  dost  thou  bend  thy  course  r ' 
Said  he  whose  head  was  hoary  — 

'  I  go,'  said  youth,  '  to  yonder  heighth. 
Where  through  long  vistas,  glancing  bright 
Are  Honor,  Wealth,  and  Glory. 

'  Be  not  deceived,'  old  age  replied, 

'  In  vain  will  be  thy  toiling  ; 
I  long  have  chased  those  beaming  joys, 
Oft  grasp'd  them,  but  the  fleeting  toys 

Were  from  me  still  recoiling.' 

Youth  raised  his  eyes  and  look'd  ahead ; 

The  prospect  still  was  bright  — 
'  I  must  go  on,  prevent  me  not, 
For  yonder  is  a  sunny  spot. 

That  promiseth  delight.' 

With  joyous  bound,  he  onward  went, 

His  eager  course  to  keep. 
And,  hope  still  sparkling  in  his  eyes. 
Towards  yonder  sunny  spot  he  flies, 

And  struggles  up  the  steep. 


THE  TROUBADOUR'S  SERENADE, 

TO   THE  LADY   OF   HIS   UNlUiQUITED   LOVE. 

Labt  I  the  dark,  long  night 

Of  grief  and  sorrow, 
That  knows  no  cheerful  light, 

No  sun-briglit  morrow, 

Is  gathering  round  my  heart, 

In  gloom  and  tears, 
That  will  not,  cannot  part, 

For  long,  long  years. 

Oh!  would  that  thought  could  die! 

And  fadeless  mem'ry 
Pass,  like  the  night-winds  sigh, 

Away,  away  from  me. 

There  is  a  quiet  resting  place, 

Cold,  dark,  and  deep; 
Where  grief  shall  leave  no  trace, 
And  misery  sleep. 

Would  I  were  slumbering  there. 

From  life's  sad  dream! 
The  tempest's  cold,  bleak  air 

Sounding  my  requiem. 

Fair  lady !  my  harp's  sad  song 

Hath  wing'd  its  flight ; 
But  murmurs  its  chords  along. 

My  last  'good  night.' 


FREDERIC    MELLEN, 


DIED,  AGED  30  YEAKS. 


Frederic  Mellex  Avas  a  native  of  Portland,  a  son  of  the  late 
Hon.  Prentiss  Mellen,  LL.  D.,  and  a  brother  of  Gren\ille  Mellen,  a 
biographical  sketch  of  -whom  is  to  be  found  in  the  preceding  pages  of 
this  ■work.  He  Avas  an  alumnus  of  Bowdoin  College,  of  the  class  of 
1825,  but  of  his  birth,  and  after  life  we  have  no  information,  other  than 
that  he  died  at  an  early  age.  Like  his  deceased  brother,  he  was  a 
man  of  undoubted  genius,  and,  like  him,  was  stricken  down  before  it 
had  fully  developed  its  richness  and  beauty.  He  devoted  liis  talent 
mostly  to  the  art  of  Painting,  and  many  of  liis  protraits  and  landscapes 
are  proof  that  no  unskilful  hand  gave  grace  and  beauty  to  them.  Mr. 
Mellen  was  highly  esteemed  by  all  who  knew  him,  and  his  death  was 
much  lamented.  As  a  poet,  he  would  have  become  very  distinguish- 
ed, had  he  have  Uved.  He  was  for  some  time  a  contributor  to  the 
United  States  Literary  Gazette,  from  which  we  have  made  our  selec- 
tions, and  from  the  "  Atlantic  Souvenir,"  a  popular  and  able  Annual, 
to  which  he  also  contributed.  His  poetry,  we  regret  to  say,  is  of  a 
foreign  character,  and  bears  no  imprint  of  American  genius,  yet  it  is 
equally  meritorious.  He  died  in  the  city  of  Boston,  and  from  an 
obituary  notice    of  Ins  death,  Ave  make  the  foUoAving  extract : 

"  With  a  native  character  of  great  suaA'ity,  simplicity,  and  instinc- 
tive correctness  of  moral  sentiment,  an  intuitive  perception  of  poetic 
beauty,  and  pecuUar  quickness  of  apprehension  and  susceptibiHty  to 
the  influences  mider  Avhich  he  was  reared  from  uifancy,  and  imbibing 
at  home  the  purest  principles  of  Airtue,  he  seasonably  received  the  ad- 
A'antages  of  an  education  at  BoAvdoin  College,  Avhich  nourished  a  love 
of  classic  and  polished  literature,  and  enabled  him  to  cultivate  those 
poAvers  Anth  Avhich  he  AAas  gifted,  Avith  an  upAA-ard  aim  to  excel  in 
Avhatever  belonged  to  mental  or  professional  accomplishment.  A  per- 
15 


170  FREDERIC    MELLEN. 


vacling  taste  for  one  favorite  art,  early  discovered,  and  displaying  a  pe- 
culiar aptitude  for  the  finest  combinations  of  forms  and  colors  —  the 
art  of  painting  —  obtained  the  mastery  of  his  pursuits  and  purposes ; 
and  he  bade  fair,  by  the  proofs  of  original  effort,  to  arrive  at  distinc- 
tion in  the  most  elegant  branches  of  tills  polite  department.  He  also 
])0ssesscd  a  very  delightfid  and  poetic  talent.  A  number  of  gems 
have  been  preserved,  among  the  choicest  and  sweetest  ■which  grace  the 
Annuals,  -which  -would  form  a  pleasing  circlet  on  the  now  i)ale  brow, 
upon  which  the  blooming  wreath  of  youthful  hope  has  untimely  per- 
ished. He  hud  a  short  time  previous  to  his  death,  removed  to  a 
sphere  more  jn'opitious  to  the  cultivation  of  his  favorite  pursuits,  and 
the  interest  of  his  friends  were  awakened  to  his  merited  success.  But 
his  monument  is,  alas!  to  be  marked  by  the  broken  column ;  and  the 
bhghted  flower  of  his  manly  promise  is  watered,  but  cannot  be  revived 
by  the  tears  of  friendship  and  affection." 

'  Yet  'twas  but  yesterday  that  all  before  him 

Slione  in  the  fresluioss  of  life's  morning  hour; 
Joy's  radiant  smile  was  playing  briefly  o'er  him, 

And  his  light  feet  impressed  but  vernal  flowers. 
The  restless  spirit  charm'd  liis  sweet  existence, 

Making  all  beautious  in  youth's  pleasant  maze, 
"While  gladsome  hope  illumed  the  onward  distance, 

And  lit  with  sunbeams  his  expectant  days. 

How  have  the  garlands  of  his  childhood  wither'd, 

And  liope's  false  anthem  died  upon  the  air  ! 
Death's  cloudy  tempests  o'er  bis  way  have  gather'd. 

And  its  stern  bolts  have  burst  in  fury  there. 
On  his  pale  forehead  sleeps  the  shade  of  even, 

Youth's  braided  wreath  lies  stain'd  in  sprinkled  dust, 
Yet  looking  upward  in  its  grief  to  Heaven, 

Love  should  not  mourn  thee,  save  in  hope  and  trust.' 


FREDERIC    MELLEN.  171 


SONG  OF  THE  WmiRY  WIND. 


Away. 
"We  have  outstaid  the  hour — mount  we  our  clouds! 

Byron's  Manpeed. 


'  Adieu  !  adieu  ! '    thus  the  storm-spirit  sang, 
'  Adieu  to  the  southern  sky  ; ' 
And  the  wintry  wind  that  round  him  rang, 
Caught  up  the  unearthly  minstrelsy, 
'  Adieu  !  adieu  !  to  its  flood's  bright  gleams, 
Its  waving  woodlands,  its  thousand  streams.' 

'  Off" !  ofi" ! '  said  the  spirit :  like  the  whirlwind's  rush 
His  snow-wreathed  car  was  gone  ; 

And  their  cold  white  breath  came  down  the  night. 
As  his  startled  steeds  sped  on. 

Yet  the  night-wind's  dirge  o'er  the  changing  year, 

Fell  slowly  and  sadly  vipon  the  ear. 

'  'Twas  the  song  of  woe,  —  of  that  wintry  wind, 

As  the  laughing  streams  ran  by, 
And  lingered  around  the  budding  trees. 

Once  clothed  in  its  own  chaste  livery. 
Its  tones  were  sad,  as  it  sunk  its  wing, 
And  this  was  its  simple  off"ering : 


172  FREDERIC    MELLEN. 


'  Farewell !  to  tlic  sunbright  South  ; 

For  the  Summer  is  hastening  on  ; 
And  the  Spring  flowers  bright  in  their  fragrant  youth, 
Mourn  not  for  the  Winter  gone. 

'  But  when  days  have  pass'd  and  I  come  again, 
Their  forms  shall  have  died  away  ; 
And  mine  must  it  be  their  cold  shroud  to  twine, 
From  the  snow  curls  that  o'er  them  lay. 

'  Farewell !  to  the  sunbright  South  ; 

To  its  midnight  dance  and  its  song  ; 
For  each  heart  is  out  for  the  Summer  breeze, 
As  it  sports  in  its  mirth  along. 

*  And  the  student  hath  lifted  his  pallid  brow, 
To  list  to  its  soothing  strain  ; 
But  oft  shall  they  sigh  in   the  parching  heat. 
For  the  wintry  wind  again. 

'  Farewell !  to  the  sunbright  South  ; 

To  the  chime  of  its  deep,  deep  sea  ; 
To  its  leaping  streams,  its  solemn  woods, 
For  they  all  have  a  voice  for  me. 

'  Farewell  !  to  its  cheerful,  its  ancient  halls. 
Where  oft  in  the  days  of  old, 
When  the  warning  embers  burnt  low  and  dim, 
And  dark  strange  stories  were  told ; 

'  My  hollow  moans  at  the  casement  bars, 
Stole  in  like  a  sound  of  dread ; 
And  the  startled  ear  in  its  lonely  sigh, 
Heard  the  voice  of  the  sheeted  dead. 


FREDERIC    MELLEN. 


173 


'  But  the  days  are  pass'd  —  the  hearth  is  dim, 
And  the  evening  tale  is  done  ; 
'Mid  the  gre^n-wood  now  is  the  choral  hymn, 
As  it  smiles  in  the  setting  sun. 

'  Farewell !  to  the  land  of  the  South  ; 
My  pathway  is  far  o'er  the  deep, 
Where  the  boom  of  the  rolling  surge  is  heard, 
And  the  bones  of  the  shipwreck'd  sleep. 

'  I  go  to  the  land  of  mist  and  storm, 

Where  the  iceberg  booms  o'er  the  swell, 
Afar  from  the  sunlit  mountains  and  streams  ; 
Sweet  land  of  the  South  !  farewell ! ' 

The  song  had  ceased ;  and  the  Summer  breeze, 

Came  whispering  up  the  glen  ; 
And  the  green  leaves  danced  on  the  forest- trees, 

As  they  welcomed  its  breath  again. 
And  the  cold  rocks  slept  in  the  moonlight  wan, 
But  the  wintry  wind  and  its  song  were  gone. 


15* 


174  FREDEllIC    MELLEN. 


SABBATll  EVENING. 

List  !  there  is  music  in  the  air  ! 

It  is  the  Sabbath  evening  bell, 
Chiming  the  vesper  hour  of  prayer 

O'er  mountain  top  and  lowland  dell. 
And  infancy  and  age  are  seen, 
Slow  winding  o'er  the  church-yard  green. 

It  is  the  eve  of  rest ;  the  light 

Still  lingers  on  the  moss-grown  tower, 

While  to  the  drowsy  ear  of  night, 
Slowly  it  marks  the  evening  hour, 

'Tis  hushed !  and  all  is  silent  there, 

Save  the  low,  fervent  voice  of  prayer. 

And  now  far  down  the  quiet  vale. 
Sweet  hymnings  on  the  air  float  by  ; 

Hushing  the  Whip-poor-will's  sad  wail 
With  its  own  plaintive  melody. 

They  breathe  of  peace,  like  the  sweet  strains 

That  swept  at  night  o'er  Bethlem's  plains. 

And  heads  are  bowed,  as  the  low  hymn 
Steals  through  that  gray  and  time-worn  pile  ; 
And  the  altar  lights  burn  faint  and  dim, 
In  the  long  and  moss-grown  aisle. 
And  the  distant  footfall  echoes  loud, 
Above  that  hush'd  and  kneeling  crowd. 


FREDERIC    MELLEN.  175 

And  now  beneath  the  old  elm  shade, 

Where  the  cold  moon-beams  may  not  smile  ; 

Bright  flowers  upon  the  graves  are  laid, 
And  sad  tears  shed  unseen  the  while. 

The  last  sweet  gift  afi'ection  brings, 

To  deck  the  earth  to  which  it  clings. 

How  beautiful  those  simple  flowers 

Strewn  o'er  that  silent  spot  now  sleep  ; 

Still  wet  with  summer's  gentle  showers, 
As  if  they  too  could  feel  and  weep ! 

They  fade  and  die  ;   the  wintry  wind 

Shall  leave  no  trace  of  them  behind. 

The  bright  new  moon  hath  set :  the  light 

Is  fading  on  the  far  blue  hills ; 
And  on  the  passing  breeze  of  night. 

The  music  of  ten  thousand  rills 
Comes  echoing  through  the  twilight  gray, 
With  the  lone  watch-dog's  distant  bay. 

The  crowd  hath  pass'd  away ;  the  prayer 
And  low-breath'd  evening  hymn  are  gone  ; 

The  cold  mist  only  lingers  there, 

O'er  the  dark  moss  and  mould'ring  stone. 

And  the  stars  shine  brightly  o'er  the  glen, 

Where  rest  the  quiet  homes  of  men. 


176  FREDERIC    MELLEN. 


VENETIAN  MOONLIGHT. 

The  midnight  chime  had  tolled  from  Marco's  towers, 

O'er  Adria's  wave  the  treinbliiif;  echo  swept, 
The  goiidolieri  paused  upon  their  oars, 

JIuttciiiig  their  prayers  as  through  the  still  night  crept. 
Ear  o'er  the  wave  the  knell  of  time  was  borne, 

Till  the  sound  died  upon  the  tranquil  breast; 
The  tea-boy  started  as  the  peal  rolled  on, 

Gazed  at  his  star  and  turned  himself  to  rest. 
The  throbbing  heart  that  late  had  said  farewell, 

Still  lingering  on  the  wave  that  bore  it  home, 
At  that  bright  hour  sighed  o'er  the  dying  swell, 

And  thought  on  years  of  absence  yet  to  come. 

'Twas  moonlight  on  Venctia's  sea, 
And  every  fragrant  bower  and  tree 

Smiled  in  the  glorious  light : 
The  thousand  isles  that  clustered  there 
Ne'er  in  their  life  looked  half  so  fair 

As  on  that  happy  night. 

A  thousand  sparkling  lights  were  set 
On  every  dome  and  minaret , 

While  through  the  marble  halls 
The  gush  of  cooling  fountains  came, 
And  chrystal  lamps  sent  far  their  flame 

Upon  the  high-arch'd  walls. 

But  sweeter  far  on  Adria's  sea, 
The  gondolier's  wild  minstrelsy 

In  accents  low  began  ; 
While  sounding  harp  and  martial  zcll, 
The  music  joined,  till  the  rich  swell 

Seemed  heaven's  wide  arch  to  span. 


FREDERIC    MELLEN.    .  177 

Then  faintly  ceasing  —  one  by  one, 
That  plaintive  voice  breathed  on  alone, 

Its  wild,  heart  soothing  lay  : 
And  then  again  that  moonlight  band, 
Started  as  if  by  magic  wand, 

In  one  bold  burst  away. 

The  joyous  laugh  came  on  the  breeze. 
And,  'mid  the  bright  o'er-hanging  trees, 

The  mazy  dance  went  round  ; 
And,  as  in  joyous  ring  they  flew, 
The  smiling  nymphs  the  wild  flowers  threw, 

That  clustered  on  the  ground. 

Soft  as  a  summer  evening's  sigh. 
From  each  o'er-hanging  bacony, 

Low,  fervent  whisperings  fell : 
And  many  a  heart  upon  that  night 
On  fancy's  pinions  sped  its  light, 

Where  holier  beinsis  dwell. 


'O^ 


Each  lovely  form  the  eye  might  see. 
The  dark-browed  maid  of  Italy, 

With  love's  own  sparkling  eyes  : 
The  fairy  Swiss  —  all —  all  that  night 
Smiled  in  the  moon-beam's  silvery  light. 

Fair  as  their  native  skies. 


178  FREDERIC    MELLEN. 


TO  THE  AKNO. 

Bright  stream  !  how  calm  upon  thy  waters  rest 
The  hues  of  evening,  when  the  empurpled  West 

Droops  its  soft  wing  upon  thy  floods  ; 

And  the  dark  waving  of  thy  woods 
Deepens  the  shadows  of  thy  tranquil  breast. 

And  Avhen  the  mountains  catch,  upon  their  heights, 
The  last  faint  blush  of  glory,  and  the  lights 

Of  heaven  twinkle  in  the  sky ; 

How  sweet  the  cicada's  lone  cry 
Mourns  through  thy  woods  in  Autumn's  mellow  nights. 

How  lovely  are  thy  shores  Avhen  on  the  air, 
O'er  the  rich  vineyards  stealing  from  afar. 

The  vintner's  careless  cheering  soars, 

Lingering  amid  thy  olive  bowers ; 
And  bright  in  heaven  burns  the  evening  star  ! 

Flow  on,  thou  classic  stream,  thy  verdant  shore ; 
Will  live  within  our  hearts  till  life  is  o'er ! 

Still  will  fond  memory  think  of  thee, 

Thou  pride  of  blo'oming  Tuscany, 
And  sigh  to  look  upon  thy  stream  once  more  ! 


FREDERIC  MELLEN.  179 


THE  VILLAGE  CHURCH. 

Sweet  home  of  peace  !  the  ling'ring  day, 
Still  plays  upon  thy  turrets  grey  ; 
But  silent  now  the  voice  of  prayer 
Which  once  uprose  so  sweetly  there  ; 
The  cricket's  fitful  cry  alone 
Is  mingled  with  the  low  wind's  moan. 
Sadly  they  seem  to  wail  the  fate, 
They  left  thy  altars  desolate. 

Sweet  home  of  peace  !  how  oft  I've  stood 
Amid  thy  little  solitude, 
A  truant  boy  stolen  forth  to  get 
The  crane's-bill  and  the  violet, — 
And  listened  to  the  village  hum 
Which  on  the  quiet  air  would  come, 
With  the  long  echoing  laugh  and  shout, 
Sent  shrilly  from  the  urchin  rout. 

And  oft  at  Autumn's  balmy  eve, 
"Wlien  the  bright  flowers  began  to  leave 
The  faded  grass,  and  gloriously 
The  harvest  moon  went  up  the  sky  ; 
From  the  far-distant  greenwood  tree, 
The  kit's  light  notes  of  melody, 
Stole  upward  to  the  holy  ground. 
As  joyously  the  dance  went  round. 


Here,  when  the  Sabbath  day  was  done, 
And  ruddily  the  Summer  sun 
Shone  o'er  the  little  vale  below,  — 
Uprose  the  hymn  so  sweet,  so  slow, 
The  traveller  in  the  distant  glen 
Paused  on  his  way  to  catch  again 
The  lingering  notes,  till  parting  day, 
Threw  its  cold  shadows  o'er  his  way. 

Those  days  have  passed  ;  and  mournfully 
The  chilly  wind  goes  rustling  by. 
That  finds  not  there  those  beauteous  flowers 
It  sported  with  in  happier  hours  ; 
And  gentle  forms  who  loved  to  gaze 
Upon  their  bloom  in  youthful  days. 
Faded,  like  them  in  their  beauty,  and  died, 
And  humbly  here  sleep  side  by  side. 


FREDERIC    MELLEN.  181 


THE  CRUSADER'S  FAREWELL. 

Lady,  farewell ! 
The  morning  sun  is  smiling  on  thy  bower, 
Bathing  in  glorious  light  each  tree  and  flower, 

And  mossy  dell. 

The  matin  chant 
Is  rising  now  ;  but  when  the  evening  hymn 
Sends  its  soft  echoes  in  each  woodland  dim, 

And  storied  haunt, 

At  that  lone  hour, 
Afar  from  thee,  I'll  look  upon  the  sky, 
And  think  each  breeze  as  low  it  murmurs  by, 

Comes  from  thy  bower. 

And  when  that  star 
Which  we  have  loved  together,  brightly  burns 
In  the  clear  sky,  I'll  think  on  one  who  mourns 

For  me,  afar. 

"When  thou  art  lone, 
And  o'er  thy  heart  Hope  sheds  no  brightening  ray  ; 
O  sing  the  notes  I  loved  in  happier  days  — 

Days  fled  and  gone. 


16 


182  FREDERIC    MELLEN. 

And  when  the  shout 
Of  mailed  men  is  soaring  through  the  sky 
With  crash  of  armor,  and  the  redoubled  cry 

Of  battle  rout, 

I'll  think  on  thcc  ; 
Thy  name  shall  be  my  war-cry,  and  its  swell 
Shall  sound  the  death-note  of  the  infidel  — 

The  watchword  of  the  free. 

But  hark  !  —  that  swell ! 
It  is  the  trumpet's  parting  call  —  I  come  ! 
Pray  for  thy  lover,  and  for  Christendom. 

Farewell !  Farewell ! 


DECEMBER  SNOW. 

Fall  thickly  on  tlic  rose-bud, 

Oh!  faintly  falling  snow! 
For  she  is  gone  wlio  trained  its  branch, 

And  wooed  its  bud  to  blow. 

Cover  the  well-known  pathway, 

Oil,  damp  December  snow! 
Her  step  no  longer  lingers  there 

When  stars  begin  to  glow. 

Melt  in  the  rapid  river, 

Ob,  cold  and  cheerless  snow! 
She  sees  no  more  its  sudden  wave, 

Nor  hears  its  foaming  flow. 

Chill  every  song-bird's  music, 

Oh,  silent,  sullen  snow! 
I  cannot  hear  her  loving  voice, 

That  lulled  me  long  ago. 

Sleep  on  the  earth's  broad  bosom, 

Oh,  weary,  winter  snow! 
Its  fragrant  flowers,  and  blithesome  birds 

Should  with  its  loved  one  go. 


WILLIAM  BELCHER   GLAZIER. 

AGE,  27  YEARS. 

William  B.  Glazier  is  a  native  of  the  city  of  Hallowell,  and  a 
son  of  Franklin  Glazier,  Esq.,  who  was  for  many  years  a  member  of 
the  old  and  weU  known  firm  of  Glazier,  Masters  &  Smith,  booksellers 
and  publishers.  He  was  born  on  the  twenty-ninth  day  of  June,  1827. 
His  early  years  were  mostly  spent  in  his  native  town,  where  he  pre- 
pared himself  to  enter  Harvard  University,  which  he  did  in  1843,  and 
on  graduating,  in  1847,  returned  to  Hallowell,  and  soon  after  read 
law  m  the  office  of  H.  W.  Pame,  Esq.,  who  was  in  practice  there 
at  that  time.  On  being  admitted  to  the  bar,  in  1850,  he  commenced 
practice  at  Newcastle,  in  this  State,  where  he  remained  three  years, 
when  he  again  returned  to  his  native  city,  and  still  resides  there,  in 
the  practice  of  his  profession.  Mr,  Glazier  is  still  an  unmarried  man, 
OA\ing  to  which  his  poetry  is  tmged  too  much  with  love-yearnings^ 
although  they  are  beautifully  mterwoven  into  many  of  his  poems. 
He  possesses  an  originality  of  thought,  a  beautiful  and  graceful  ex- 
pression, that  but  very  few  of  our  younger  poets  excel.  He  is  ac- 
quiring a  high  reputation,  and  daily  advancing  towards  the  goal  of  pop- 
ularity, and  the  temple  of  fame,  where  Poesy,  with  gentle  hand,  be- 
stows rewards  upon  her  favorite  children.  In  1853,  he  published  a 
small  volume  of  poems  that  met  with  a  very  flattering  reception  ; 
many  of  the  poems  included  in  this  volume,  first  appeared  in  the 
"Knickerbocker  Magazine,"  of  which  Mr.  Glazier  is  a  liighly  es- 
teemed contributor.  In  making  om*  selections  from  his  poems  we 
have  been  obliged  to  take  such  as  we  could  find  in  the  various  maga- 
zines and  journals  to  which  he  is  a  contributor,  and  we  have  endea- 
vored to  do  him  justice.  Had  we  have  possessed  a  volume  of  his 
"  Poems,"  we  could  have  doubtless  selected  many  of  more  merit  than 
those  here  included.  He  has  delivered  poems  on  several  occasions 
16* 


186  WILLIAM    B.    GLAZIER. 

before  different  Societies,  and  we  have  heard  them  highly  spoken  of 
by  gentlemen  of  acknowledged  talent.  The  poem  before  the  Literary 
Societies  of  Bowdoin  College,  at  the  Commencement,  m  August  last, 
Avas  delivered  by  him,  and  is  said  to  be  his  master-i)icce.  The  fol- 
lowing beautiful  lyric  was  introduced  into  the  poem,  and  receiv- 
ed with  much  applause.  It  bears  the  imprint  of  his  peculiar  grace- 
fulness and  beauty  of  expression.  It  may  be  well  to  remark  that  this 
little  gem  is  not  a  mere  creation  of  fancy,  but  came  from  the  Poet's 
heart,  the  same  as  did  that  beautiful  song,  'O,  No,  We  Never 
Mention  Her,"  from  the  heart  of  the  English  poet,  Haynes  Bayley. 
The  circumstances  attending  the  composition  of  them  both,  are  similar. 

Oh !  Summer  Sea,  tliy  murmuring  waves  are  singing, 

A  song  of  sweetness  in  my  listening  ear, 
Youth,  Love  and  Hope,  that  lulling  strain  is  bringing 

Back  to  my  lieart  in  forms  distinct  and  dear; 
Again  the  glorious  visions  of  Life's  morning 

Rise  on  my  sight,  and  make  the  darkness  fiee, 
Again  upon  thy  sliores,  at  dayliglit's  dawning, 

I  walk  with  one  beloved,  oh.  Summer  Sea. 

Your  soft  waves  kiss  her  feet  and  love  to  linger 

Upon  the  sand  where  her  light  steps  have  stray'd, 
Now  in  thy  tide  she  dips  her  snowy  finger. 

And  now  I  feel  it  on  my  forehead  laid; 
'  I  sign  thee  with  a  sign'  she  softly  murmurs. 

And  turns  her  blushing  face  away  from  me, 
'  Thou  Shalt  be  happy,  love,  through  many  summers, 

'And  I  will  love  thee,  hear  me,  Summer  Sea!" 

Thon  heard'st  the  vow,  oh,  gentle  Sea  of  Summer! 

Thou  lieaid'st  it,  laughing  in  the  morning  ray, 
Thou  knewest  well  that  Love,  the  earliest  comer, 

Is  very  prone  to  make  the  shortest  stay; 
The  sign  dried  up  beneath  the  rays  of  morning. 

The  vow  found  wings  as  fast  and  far  to  flee, 
Now,  I  prefer  my  sleep  at  daylight's  dawning, 

To  wandering  on  thy  shores,  oh,  Summer  Sea! 


WILLIAM    B.    GLAZIER.  187 


LAND  BREEZES. 

Down  some  bright  river  hast  thou  never  drifted, 

And  marked  on  either  side 
Green  fields  and  slopes,  with  cedar  vallies  rifted. 

That  met  the  wooing  tide. 

Fair  groves  all  panoplied  with  Summer's  armor. 

Knolls  where  the  wild  bee  roams, 
And  o'er  the  whole  a  deeper  light  and  warmer ; 

The  light  of  happy  homes. 

And  as  thy  bark  was  downward  dropping  slowly 

By  spots  and  scenes  like  these. 
Upon  thy  brow,  with  kisses  calm  and  holy. 

Lingered  the  warm  land-breeze. 

The  river  widened,  and  its  sandy  verges 

Crept  from  thee  either  way; 
And  on  thine  ear  were  borne  the  ocean's  surges, 

Upon  thy  lip  its  spray. 

In  its  tumultuous  strife  and  ceaseless  tossing, 

Its  agony  and  storm. 
From  shores  that  thou  hadst  left,  thy  damp  brow  crossing, 

Blew  soft  th-at  land-breeze  warm. 


188  WILLIAM    B.    GLAZIER. 

Unnoticed  then  were  billows  huge  and  dashing, 

Unmarked  the  tempest's  roar  ; 
Thou  only  heard'st  the  waters  crisply  washing 

Upon  the  river's  shore. 

Down  some  bright  stream  of  song  thy  heart  hath  floated, 

And  seen  each  side  inclined, 
Far  stretching  plains  to  noblest  thought  devoted ; 

Green  hill-sides  of  the  mind. 

Fair  groves  where  earnest  hopes  were  boldly  growing, 

Gardens  of  Love  and  Truth  ; 
And  o'er  the  whole  the  poet's  heart  was  throwing 

Its  passions  and  its  youth. 

By  bluff's  of  Wit,  by  nooks  of  Fancy  gliding. 

Drifted  thy  bark  along  ; 
While  o'er  thy  spirit,  with  a  sweet  abiding, 

Dallied  the  breeze  of  sonj?. 


^O" 


Till  the  perpetual  swell  of  fierce  emotion, 

Of  restless  care  and  strife. 
Foretold  that  thou  wert  nearing  that  broad  ocean ; 

The  mighty  sea  of  Life. 

Across  its  waves  forever  high  and  crested, 

Forever  icy  cold, 
Fluttered  that  breeze  from  shoi-es  where  once  it  rested. 

And  lapped  thee  in  its  fold. 

Oh,  weary  voyager  on  that  broad  Atlantic 

Of  human  woe  and  wrong  ! 
Didst  thou  not  see  its  billows  wild  and  frantic, 

Lulled  by  the  breeze  of  Song  ? 


WILLIAM    B.    GLAZIER.  189 


HOMELESS. 

She  stood  alone  on  the  sullen  pier 

With  the  night  around,  and  the  river  below, 
And  a  voice,  it  seemed  to  her  half-crazed  ear, 

Was  heard  in  the  waters  splashing  flow  : 
'  You  are  tired  and  worn  ;  come  hither  and  sleep, 
Where  your  poor  dim  eyes  shall  cease  to  weep, 
And  no  morning  shall  break  in  sorrow.' 

The  long  grass  hung  from  each  wave-washed  pile, 
And  the  water  amid  its  loose  locks  ran  ; 

And  she  thought,  with  a  strange  and  ghastly  smile, 
Of  a  long-fled  day,  and  a  false,  false  man ; 

How  her  hand  had  oft  smoothed  his  damp  brown  hair 

But  he  and  the  world  had  left  her  there, 

With  no  friend  but  the  beckoning  water. 

Was  Heaven  so  far,  that  no  angel  arm 

Might  round  the  Homeless  in  love  be  thrown, 

To  keep  her  away  from  death  or  harm  ? 
Or  was  it,  in  truth,  a  mercy  shown. 

That  left  her  at  night,  alone,  to  think 
Of  her  manifold  woes  upon  the  brink 
Of  that  deep  and  pitiless  river. 


190  WILLIAM  B.    GLAZIER. 

She  looked  to  the  far-off  town  and  wept ; 

And  oh !  could  you  blame  the  poor  girl's  tears  ? 
For  she  thought  how  many  a  maiden  slept, 

With  Love  and  Honor  as  wardens  near ; 
While  she  Avas  left  in  the  world  alone, 
With  none  to  miss  her  when  she  was  gone 

Where  the  merciless  waves  were  calling. 

No  human  eye  and  no  human  ear 

E'er  saw  a  struggle  or  heard  a  sound  ; 

And  the  curious  never  could  spare  a  tear 

As  they  looked  at  morn  on  the  outcast  drown'd  ; 

But  ah  !  had  speech  been  given  the  dead, 

Perhaps  those  motionless  lips  had  said, 
'  No  homeless  are  found  in  heaven.' 


WILLIAM    B.    GLAZIER.  191 


FEVER. 

Thou  hast  been  ill,  and  I  was  never  nigh  thee, 

I,  whose  existence  by  thine  own  was  fed, 
I  did  not  watch  in  patient  silence  by  thee, 

I  did  not  pray  beside  thy  fevered  bed  ; 
True,  there  were  gentler  forms  about  thee  moving, 

And  softer  hands  were  fondly  clasped  in  thine. 
But  yet  there  beat  not  there  a  heart  more  loving. 

There  was  no  keener  agony  than  mine. 

Could  I  have  kneeled  beside  thee,  and  have  told  thee 

All  my  full  heart  would  gladly  have  outpoured, 
Had  it  been  granted  in  these  arms  to  fold  thee, 

Gazing  into  thine  eyes  without  a  word ; 
Or  to  have  kissed  thy  cheek,  so  hot  and  throbbing, 

Or  to  mine  own  thine  aching  forehead  press'd, 
Or  to  have  soothed  thy  low  and  half-heard  sobbing, 

Thou  hadst  been  happy,  I  had  been  too  blest. 

I  could  have  hushed  my  breath  while  thou  wert  sleeping, 

And  when  thine  eyes  from  slumber  should  unclose, 
The  same  glance  should  meet  them,  dimmed  with  weep  iug 

That  met  them  fondly  ere  they  sought  repose  ; 
And  if  the  wing  of  Death  had  o'er  thee  hovered. 

With  its  slow  motion  swaying  Life's  dull  tide, 
From  its  chill  shadow  I  had  thee  recovered. 

Or  in  it  sunk,  unshrinking,  at  thy  side. 


192  WILLIAM    B.  GLAZIER. 

Alas  !  tlicu  might'st  have  died,  and  yet  beside  thee 

Have  never  seen  my  form  or  heard  me  speak, 
Love's  last  fond  accents  might  have  been  denied  thee, 

Love's  latest  kiss  have  never  pressed  thy  cheek  ; 
I  might  have  mingled  in  the  world,  and  never 

Have  felt  the  blessing  that  thy  latest  prayer 
Was  for  the  one  that  soon  from  thee  must  sever. 

Was,  that  he  yet  thy  happiness  might  share. 

The  midnight  came,  and  I  could  never  slumber, 

The  morning  came,  and  brought  the  night's  unrest, 
The  thought  that  thou  in  pain  the  hours  must  number. 

Filled  with  a  deeper  pain  my  quickened  breast ; 
And,  when  at  eve,  the  stars  so  calm  and  holy 

Looked  on  the  earth,  then  came  the  bitter  fear 
That  thy  pure  soul  unfit  for  mine  so  lowly, 

Must  seek  their  sky,  its  only  fitting  sphere. 

But  thou  art  spared  me,  oh,  this  stubborn  spirit, 

Unbent  before,  is  meek  and  thankful  now, 
The  garland  of  thy  love  I  did  not  merit. 

And  yet  it  is  not  plucked  from  off  my  brow  ; 
And,  in  my  dreams,  thy  semblance,  like  an  angel. 

Smiles  gently  on  me,  bids  me  not ,  to  fear,  — 
Into  my  spirit  sinks  the  blest  Evangel, 

And  echoes  sweetly,  '  Be  thou  of  good  cheer.' 


WILLIAM    B.    GLAZIER.  193 


THE  ROSARY. 

They   sat  together  in  the  wood, 

The  maiden  and  the  hoy, 
And  through  the  shade  the  sunlight  fell, 

Like  sorrow  crossed  with*  joy. 
So  in  their  hearts  Love's  virgin  ore 

Was  crossed  with  Grief's  alloy. 

'  And  take,'  she  said,  '  this  cross  and  chain, 

And  wear  it  on  thy  breast : 
I've  counted  oft  each  bead  and  link 

To  lull  me  to  my  rest ; 
And  many  a  time  this  little  cross 

Hath  to  my  lips  been  press'd. 

'  Thou  goest  from  me  — - 1  no  more 

Shall  watch  about  thy  way  ; 
I  shall  not  see  thy  form  at  eve. 

Or  hear  thy  voice  by  day  ; 
All  that  my  weakness  leaves  for  me 

Is  for  thy  sake  to  pray. 

'  If  Evil  lure  thee  from  the  Right, 

If  Conscience  plead  in  vain, 
Oh !  like  an  iron  link  to  Truth, 

Heaven  make  this  fragile  chain  ! 
And  may  this  cross  burn  in  thy  heart. 

Till  thou  art  strong  again. 


17 


194  WILLIAM    B.    GLAZIER, 

'  If  bluer,  softer  ej'es  than  mine 
Seem  worlds  of  love  to  thee, 

If  other  lips  and  other  tones 
Croud  out  my  memory, 

Still  be  this  chain  about  thy  soul, 
To  draw  thee  back  to  me.' 

And  so  they  parted  :   she  to  wear, 
Above,  an  angel's  crown. 

And  he  to  feel,  on  land  or  sea, 
In  forest  or  in  town, 

A  cross  and  chain  upon  his  heart, 
From  the  far  heaven  let  down. 


WILLIAM    B.    GLAZIEIl.  195 


CAPE  COTTAGE. 

We  stood  upon  the  ragged  rocks, 
"When  the  long  day  was  nearly  done, 

The  waves  had  ceased  their  sullen  shocks 
And  lapped  our  feet  with  murmuring  tone, 

And,  o'er  the  Bay,  in  streaming  locks 
Blew  the  red  tresses  of  the  Sun. 

Along  the  west  the  golden  bars 

Still  to  a  deeper  glory  grew, 
Above  our  heads,  the  faint  few  stars 

Looked  out  from  the  unfathomed  blue. 
And  the  far  city's  clamorous  jars 

Seemed  melted  in  that  evening  hue. 


"O 


Oh  sunset  sky,  oh  purple  tide, 

Oh  friends  to  friends  that  closer  press'd, 
Those  glories  have  in  darkness  died. 

And  ye  have  left  my  longing  breast, 
I  could  not  keep  you  by  my  side, 

Nor  fix  that  radiance  in  the  west. 

Upon  those  rocks  the  Avaves   shall  beat 

With  the  same  low  and  murmurous  strain, 

Across  those  waves  with  glancing  feet 
The  sunset  rays  shall  seek  the  main ; 

But  when  together  shall  we  meet. 
Cape  Cottage,  on  thy  shores  again  ? 


196  William  b.  glaziek. 


NEARER  TO  THEE. 

Years,  years  have  fled,  since,  hushed  in  thy  last  slumber, 
They  laid  thee  down  beneath  the  old  elm  tree ; 

But  with  a  patient  heart  each  day  I  number. 
Because  it  brings  me  nearer  still  to  thee. 

Twilight  comes,  and  robes  in  softest  splendor 

All  that  is  beautiful  on  land  and  sea, 
And  o'er  my  spirit  flings  an  influence  tender, 

For  in  that  hour  I  nearer  seem  to  thee. 

The  night  is  gone ;  and  as  the  mists  of  morning 
Before  the  Day-god's  burning  presence  flee, 

Thus  in  my  heart  a  welcome  light  is  dawning. 
That  cheers  me  as  I  nearer  press  to  thee. 

I  sometimes  think  thy  spirit  kindly  watches 

Over  the  heart  that  loved  so  tenderly  ; 
For  there  are  rapturous  moments  when  it  catches 

As  if  in  dreams,  a  blessed  glimpse  of  thee. 

In  those  sweet  seasons  thou  dost  come  before  me, 
With  loveliness  that  earth  may  never  see : 

I  feel  thy  presence  like  a  blessing  o'er  me, 
And  then  I  know  I  nearer  am  to  thee. 


WILLIAM    B.    GLAZIER.  197 


17* 


THE  LAUNCHING. 


She  starts— she  moves— she  seems  to  feel 
The  thrill  of  life  along  her  keel, 
And  spurning  with  her  foot  the  ground, 
With  one  exulting,  joyous  bound, 
She  leaps  into  the  ocean's  arms  1 

H.  W.  Longfellow. 


Well  may  they  deck  the  ship  to-day 

With  colors  flaunting  free, 
Well  may  she  wear  her  best  array, 

So  soon  a  bride  to  be ; 
Long  has  the  dainty  beauty  kept 

Her  lover  from  her  charms, 
But  now  her  last  lone  sleep  is  slept, 

We  give  her  to  his  arms. 

Oh,  guard  our  darling  from  the  storm : 

Thy  bosom  never  bore 
A  prouder  or  more  faultless  form, 

A  fairer  love  before. 
Tame  down  th:y  billows  thundering  shocks, 

Thy  foaming  wrath,  O  Sea  ! 
And  keep  her  from  the  angry  rocks 

That  lie  a%3^g  her  lee. 


198  WILLIAM    B.    GLAZIER. 

Her  home  has  been  where  green  hills  kiss 

The  river's  rippling  tide, 
But,  oh  !  our  eyes  must  learn  to  miss 

The  Ocean's  new-made  bride, 
Where  white-capp'd  waves  forever  rise, 

Where  sea-birds  skim  the  foam, 
Far  off,  beneath  the  sea-kissed  skies, 

Our  Beauty  seeks  her  home. 

Ah,  proud  may  be  the  mariners 
That  stand  upon  her  deck  ; 

They  little  fear,  in  strength  like  hers, 
The  tempest  or  the  wreck: 

And  proudly  may  her  ensign  fly 
'  That  bears  the  stripes  and  stars  ; 

The  peace  that  builds  a  ship  like  this, 
Is  worth  a  thousand  wars. 


LIFE'S  HARVEST-FIELD. 

When  morning  wakes  t)ie  earth  from  sleep, 

With  soft  and  kindling  ray, 
We  rise,  Life's  harvest-lield  to  reap,  — 

'Tis  ripening  day  by  day. 

To  reap,  sometimes  with  joyful  heart, 

Anon  witli  tearful  eye 
We  see  the  Spoiler  liatli  a  part,— 

We  reap  with  smile  and  sigh. 

Full  oft  the  tares  obstruct  our  way ; 

Full  oft  we  feel  the  thorn ; 
Our  hearts  grow  faint —  we  weep,  we  pray  — 

Then  hope  is  newly  born. 

Hope  that  at  last  we  all  shall  come, 
Though  rough  the  way  and  long; 

Back  to  our  Father's  house,  our  home. 
And  bring  our  sheaves  with  song. 


A.  D.  WOODBRIDGE. 

IMiss  WoODBRiDGE  Avas  bom  in  Penobscot  Coiuity,  but  in  what  year, 
or  town  we  have  found  it  impossible  to  ascertain.  She  is  inchided  in 
Read's  Female  Poets  of  America,  and  also  in  the  American  Female 
Poets,  by  Caroline  May,  the  latter,  only,  gi\ing  a  biograpliical  sketch, 
fi-om  which,  however,  we  can  gain  no  definite  information.  Her  pa- 
rents resided  at  Stockbridge,  Mass.,  where  she  spent  the  larger  portion 
of  her  youthful  days.  She  first  became  known  as  a  poetess  by  her 
simple  poems,  contributed  to  Mrs.  Child's  Juvenile  ^Miscellany,  and 
other  reHgious  jom-nals.  In  1847,  an  elegant,  illustrated  volume,  en- 
titled '  The  Rambow,' was  published  in  Albany  and  New  York,  and 
edited  by  A.  J.  McDonald,  Esq.,  to  Avhich  she  contributed  several 
poems  of  equal  merit  to  the  others  which  it  contained.  The  design  of 
this  work  was  to  suppose  the  cUfferent  States  of  the  Union  to  be  flower 
gardens,  and  from  each,  contributions  to  the  work  were  received,  thus 
forming  a  national  bouquet  of  the  flowers  of  literature.  Miss  Wood- 
bridge,  associated  with  the  Hon.  Beverly  Tucker,  Henry  T.  Tucker- 
man,  Rev.  Dr.  Sprague,  Alfred  B.  Street,  and  others,  represented  the 
State  of  New  York,  although  she  should,  more  properly,  have  repre- 
sented her  native  State,  which,  on  that  occasion,  found  poor  representa- 
tives in  two  nom  de  plume  contributors  of  but  little  merit. 

She  also  for  several  years  contributed  to  the  most  popular  Annuals 
then  published,  but  few  of  which  are  now  in  existence.  For  ten  years 
she  was  connected  with  the  Albany  Female  Academy,  as  a  teacher, 
and  while  there  she  won  the  love  and  warmest  friendship  of  her  asso- 
ciates, and  the  esteem  of  all  who  knew  her,  by  her  purity  of  character, 
kindness  of  disposition,  and  superior  talent.  In  1846,  she  finished  her 
engagements  at  this  school,  and  removed  to  Brooklj-n,  New  York, 


202  A.    U.    WOODBUIDGE. 


and  became  connected  with  the  Brooklyn  Female  Seminary,  a  new  in- 
stitution, Avhich  was  opened  during  that  year.  On  the  occasion  of 
the  dedication  of  this  Seminary  she  wrote  the  following  jjoem  : — 

If  in  yon  glorious  arch  on  hiKli 

Another  star  should  iniroly  shine, 
How  would  \vc  gaze  with  wond'ring  eye! 

How  fervent  bless  tlie  light  divine! 
The  miser  turning  from  his  gold, 

The  penitent  from  contrite  prayer; 
Tlie  child  of  joy — of  grief  untold, 

Would  join  to  hail  the  stranger  fair. 

That  star  hath  risen !    Even  now  ' 

Its  first  faint  beam  salutes  the  earth,  — 
Fatlier  of  Lights!  To  Thee  we  bow. 

Oh!  bless  the  hour  that  gave  it  birth! 
Long  may  it  shine  with  steady  ray; 

Long  gild  these  '  heights'  with  purest  beam  ;— 
Star  of  our  hopes,  still  cheer  our  way, 

Until  we  wake  from  Life's  long  dream. 

How  long  she  remamed  at  this  Seminary,  we  caimot  learn,  or  Avhe- 
ther  she  is  still  connected  with  it.  In  her  private  character,  and  also 
in  her  Hterary  productions  she  reminds  us  very  much  of  that  gifted 
young  ladj',  INIiss  Lucy  Hooper,  whose  early  death  Avas  so  deeply  la- 
mented by  all  AA'ho  knew  her,  or  were  familiar  Anth  her  writings. 
Miss  Woodbridge,  to  a  large  extent,  possesses  the  same  gentleness  of 
disposition,  pm'ity  of  heart,  and  \nnning  manner,  wliich  made  this  lady 
so  much  beloved.  Her  writings  are  characterized  by  a  deep  religious 
purity  and  earnestness,  and  are  not  without  then-  proper  share  of 
merit. 


A.    D.    WOODBRIDGE. 


203 


LIFE'S  LIGHT  AND  SHADE. 

How  strangely,  in  this  life  of  ours, 

Light  falls  amid  the  darkest  shade  ! 
How  soon  the  thorn  is  hid  by  flowers  ! 

How  Hope,  sweet  spirit,  comes  to  aid 
The  heart  oppressed  by  care  and  pain, 

And  whispers,  '  all  shall  yet  be  well ! ' 
We  listen  to  her  magic  strain. 

And  yield  the  spirit  to  her  spell. 

How  oft  when  Love  is  like  a  bird 

Whose  weary  wing  sweeps  o'er  the  sea, 
While  not  an  answering  note  is  heard, 

She  spies  a  verdant  olive- tree  ; 
And  soon  within  that  sheltering  bower. 

She  pours  her  very  soul  in  song, 
While  other  voices  wake  that  hour. 

Her  gentle  numbers  to  prolong. 


Thus,  when  this  heart  is  sad  and  lone. 

As  Memory  wakes  her  dirge-like  hymn, 
When  Hops  on  heavenward  wing  has  flown. 

And  earth  seems  wrapped  in  shadows  dim : 
O  !  then  a  word,  a  glance,  a  smile, 

A  simple  flower,  a  childhood's  glee, 
Will  each  sad  thought,  each  care  beguile. 

Till  joy's  bright  fountain  gushes  free. 


204  A.    D.    WOODBRIDGE. 

To-day,  its  waters  softly  stirred, 

For  Peace  was  nigh,  that  gentle  dove ! 
And  sweet  as  song  of  forest-bird, 

Came  the  low  voice  of  one  I  love  ; 
And  flowers,   '  the  smile  of  Heaven,'  were  mine, 

They  seemed  to  Avhisper  '  Why  so  sad  r 
Of  love  we  are  the  seal  and  sign, 

We  come  to  make  thy  spirit  glad.' 

Thus  ever  in  the  steps  of  grief 

Are  seen  the  precious  seeds  of  joy, 
Each  '  fount  of  Marah  '  hath  a  '  leaf,' 

Whose  healing  balm  we  may  employ. 
Then  'midst  Life's  fitful  fleeting  day, 

Look  up !  the  sky  is  bright  above  ; 
Kind  voices  cheer  thee  on  thy  way, 

Faint  spirit !  trust  the  God  of  Love  ! 


A.    D.    WOODBRIDGE.  205 

MYRTLE  CREEK, 

A   BEAUTIFUL   STKEAM  IN    SPEXCERTOWN,  NEW   YORK. 

A  GENTLE  STREAM  —  uiiknown  to  song, 

Yet  Beauty  is  its  dower; 
It  floweth  through  the  meadows  green, 

Where  many  a  fragrant  flower 
Bends  o'er  it,  with  loving  eye, 

In  the  still,  noon-tide  hour. 

A  crystal  stream  whose  waters  flash 

In  morning's  golden  ray  ; 
Now  dancing  like  a  frolic  child. 

Then  stealing  slow  away, 
As  if  amid  these  sylvan  scenes, 

They  fain  would  longer  stay. 

It  windeth  through  a  quiet  vale ; 

It  turns  a  rustic  mill ; 
On  either  side  are  harvest-fields  ; 

Above,  a  wood-crowned  hill ; 
"SVhile  near,  is  seen  a  graceful  spire, 

A  hamlet,  fair  and  still. 

In  morning  hour,  or  noontide  ray, 

In  the  soft  twilight  gleam, 
Steals  gently  on  the  list'ning  ear. 

The  murmur  of  that  stream ; 
Blent  oft  with  leaf-notes  from  its  banks. 

Like  music  of  a  dream. 


18 


206  A.    D.    WOODBRIDGE. 


TO  LILLIE. 

Wheke  is  the  lily  now  ? 

Lily,  sweet  and  fair  ! 
Blossoms  it  'neatli  forest  bough, 

Shedding  fragrance  there  ? 
Doth  the  zephyr's  softest  kiss 

Touch  its  petals  sweet  ? 
Would  that  I  were  woodland  bough ! 

Or  the  zephyr  fleet ! 

Doth  the  lily  flourish  now  ? 

Doth  it  lift  its  head, 
Joyfully,  to  meet  the  morn  ? 

Are  the  night-dews  shed 
Lovingly,  on  petals  bright  ?  — 

Would  I  were  the  dew  ! 
Or  a  beam  of  matin  lighc, 

And  I'd  bless  it  too. 

Lily !  emblem  meet  art  thou 

Of  a  little  child  ! 
Such  as  Jesus  loved  to  bless  — 

Meek,  and  undefilcd. 
We  will  trust  her  to  His  care, 

To  His  faithful  breast  ;  — 
Lillie  dearest  !  Lillie  fair! 

There,  with  thee,  we'll  rest. 


THE  TWO  HANDS. 

WRITTEN    AFTER    ILLNESS. 

Thy  hand,  O  God,  in  ministry  of  pain, 
Was  laid  on  burning  clieek  and  aching  brow. 
And  the  quick  pulses,  calmed  in  mercy  now, 

Poured  a  fast  fever's  fide  thro'  every  vein. 
And  wild  unrest  through  throbbing  limb  and  brain, 

And  yet,  O  God,  another  hand  in  thine. 

Lent  by  thy  goodness  to  this  need  of  mine, 
With  gentle  soothing  hath  restored  again 

Calm  days  of  health  and  nights  of  sweet  repose. 
And  through  that  dear  hand's  angel  ministry, 
I  upward  guide  my  trembling  faith  to  see. 

What  pain  forgets,  what  reason  scarcely  knows, 

That  God's  own  chastening  hand  itself  must  be 
Like  the  dear  hand  of  love  his  love  bestows. 


EDWARD   PAYSON   WESTON. 


AGE,  35  TEAKS. 


Edward  P.  Weston  is  a  son  of  Rev.  Isaac  "Weston,  and  -was 
born  at  Boothbay,  Lincoln  County,  on  the  nineteenth  day  of  January, 
1819,  His  father  was  then  located  there  as  a  settled  minister.  He 
was  educated  at  Bowdoin  College,  from  which  he  graduated  in  1839, 
and  has  since  that  time  been  engaged  in  teaching.  For  the  past  se- 
ven years  he  has  been  Principal  of  the  Elaine  Female  Seminar^-,  at 
Gorham,  which  is  undoubtedly,  the  best  and  most  popular  Female 
School  in  this  State.  In  1840,  Mr.  Weston  edited  a  volume  of 
poems  from  the  Students  and  Graduates  of  Bowdoin  College,  under 
the  title  of 'Bowdoin  Poets,' among  wliich  Avere,  Longfellow,  McLel- 
lan,  Thatcher,  "Walter,  Claude  L.  Hemans,  a  son  of  ^Irs.  Hemans,  the 
poetess,  Cutter,  Soule,  Fuller,  Flagg,  and  others,  including  himself, 
each  of  whom  contributed  several  poems.  This  volume  was  published 
by  Joseph  Griffin,  Brunswick,  and  was  well  received,  the  first  edi- 
tion beuig  entii-ely  exhausted  soon  after  it  was  published,  and  the  pub- 
lisher has  since  issued  a  second  and  enlarged  edition,  which  has  had  a 
wide  circulation,  but  no  wider  than  its  merit  deserves.  It  gives  e\i- 
dence  of  a  superior  poetical  discrimination  on  the  part  of  the  editor, 
whose  selections  are  characterized  by  a  perfect  luiowledge  of  -what 
genuine  poetry  consists  of.  Mr.  "Weston's  poem,  entitled  'A  Vision  of 
Immortality,'  pubHshed  in  the  papers  anonymously,  was  received  as 
Bryant's,  owing  to  the  opening  lines, 

'  I,  who  essayed  to  sinj?  in  earlier  days 
The  T/icnatopsis,  and  The  HiTnn  to  Death, 
"Wake  now  the  Hymn  to  Immortality.' 

and  as  such  it  was  bountifully  praised  by  the  leading  jomnials,  and 
copied  throughout  the  entu-e  country,  also  in  France  and  England. 
IS* 


210 


EDWARD    P.    WESTON. 


When  it  was  discovered  that  Bryant  was  not  its  author,  those 
journals  Avhich  liad  been  most  bountiful  in  their  encomiums  upon  its 
merit,  felt  much  chagrined,  M-hile  others  laughed  at  the  joke.  Injus- 
tice to  the  innocent  author,  whom  many  have  censured  for  this  decep- 
tion, immeaningly  committed,  we  will  exjjlain  its  publication.  It  was 
originallj-  a  ])art  of  a  jioem  delivered  some  jears  ago  by  Mr.  Weston 
before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  of  Bowdoin  College,  and  which  consisted 
entirely  of  imitations  of  the  most  disthiguished  American  poets.  How 
well  he  succeeded  in  his  imitations,  '  A  Vision  of  Immortality,'  will 
show  to  the  reader.  A  better  imitation  of  Bryant  could  not,  we  ven- 
ture to  say,  be  made.  The  poem  was  published  as  a  '  Sequel  to  Tha- 
nato])sis,'  with  the  consent  of  the  poet  Bryant,  by  Mr.  Weston  per- 
sonally obtained.  It  matters  not,  as  far  as  its  literary  merit  is  con- 
cerned, whether  it  was  written  by  the  one  or  the  other,  and  those  edi- 
tors -^^ho  so  foolishly  revoked  their  flattering  notices  when  a  more 
humble  irame  claimed  its  authorshij),  done  themselves  but  little  credit. 
As  the  production  of  Mr.  Weston,  it  is  a  perfect  imitation,  while  as 
tliat  of  Mr.  Bryant,  it  would  be  nothing  more  than  his  old  familiar 
style  of  writing. 

Mr.  Weston  is  now,  and  has  been  for  some  time  past,  an  assistant 
editor  of  the  '  Eclectic,'  a  popular  literary  weekly  journal,  published 
at  Portland.  lie  is  a  man  of  fine  talents,  a  superior  teacher,  and  a 
gentlemen  of  high  standing  in  private  life.  He  is  married,  and 
resides  in  the  town  of  Gorham,  where  his  flourishing  school  is  sit- 
uated. Although  a  man  of  abundant  talent,  he  has  written  nothing 
of  any  great  length  by  which  to  acquire  a  reputation  outside  of  our 
own  State,  except '  A  Vision  of  Immortalitj','  which,  with  '  Lines 
written  at  the  Falls  of  the  Passaic,'  and  the  '  Two  Hands,'  we  con- 
sider the  finest  specimens  of  his  poetic  talent  that  we  have  seen. 


EDWARD    P.    WESTON.  211 


A  VISION  OF  IMMORTALITY: 

A   SEQl'EL    TO   '  THANATOPSIS  '  AND  'THE  HYMN    TO  DEATH.' 

I,  WHO  essayed  to  sing  in  earlier  days 
The  Thanatoj)sis  and  The  Hyrnn  to  Death, 
Wake  now  the  Hymn  to  Immortality. 
Yet  once  again,  O  man,  come  forth  and  view 
The  haunts  of  Nature,  —  walk  the  waving  fields, 
Enter  the  silent  groves,  or  pierce  again 
The  depths  of  the  untrodden  wilderness, 
And  she  shall  teach  thee. 

Thou  hast  learned  before 

One  lesson  ;  and  her  Hymn  of  Death  has  fallen 

With  melancholy  sweetness  on  thine  ear ; 

Yet  she  shall  tell  thee  with  a  myriad  tongue 

That  life  is  there  —  life  in  uncounted  forms  — 

Stealing  in  silence  through  the  hidden  roots  ; 

In  every  branch  that  swings  ;  in  the  green  leaves 

And  waving  grain,  and  the  gay  summer  flowers 

That  gladden  the  beholder.     Listen  now. 

And  she  shall  teach  thee  that  the  dead  have  slept 

But  to  wake  in  more  glorious  forms,  — 


212  EDWARD    r.    WESTON. 

And  the  mystery  of  the  seed's  decay 

Is  but  the  promise  of  the  coming  life. 

Each  towering  oak  that  lifts  its  living  head 

To  the  broad  sunlight  in  eternal  strength, 

Glories  to  tell  thee  that  the  acorn  died. 

The  flowers  that  spring  above  their  last  year's  grave 

Arc  eloquent  Avith  the  voice  of  life  and  hope  — 

And  the  green  trees  clap  their  rejoicing  hands, 

Waving  iu  triumph  over  the  earth's  decay  ! 

Yet  not  alone  shall  flower  and  forest  raise 

The  voice  of  triumph  and  the  hymn  of  life. 

The  insect  brood  are  there  !  —  each  painted  wing 

That  flutters  in  the  sunshine,  broke  but  now 

From  the  close  cerements  of  a  worm's  own  shroud, 

Is  telling,  as  it  flics,  how  life  may  spring 

In  its  glad  beauty  from  the  gloom  of  death. 

Where  the  crushed  mould  beneath  the  sunken  foot 

Seems  but  the  sepulchre  of  old  decay, 

Turn  thou  a  keener  glance,  and  thou  shalt  find 

The  gathered  myriads  of  a  mimic  world. 

The  breath  of  evening  and  the  sultry  morn 

Bears  on  its  wing  a  cloud  of  witnesses. 

That  earth  from  her  unnumbered  caves  of  death 

Sends  forth  a  mightier  tide  of  teeming  life. 

Raise  then  the  Hymn  to  Immortality ! 
The  broad  green  prairies  and  the  wilderness. 
And  the  old  cities  where  the  dead  have  slept 
Age  upon  age,  a  thousand  graves  in  one, 
Shall  yet  be  crowded  Avith  the  living  forms 
Of  myriads,  waking  from  the  silent  dust. 


EDWARD    P.    AVE3T0N.  21 


n 


Kings  that  lay  dowa  in  state,  and  earth's  poor  slaves, 
Resting  together  in  one  fond  embrace. 
The  white-haired  patriarch  and  the  tender  babe, 
Grown  old  together  in  the  flight  of  years. 
They  of  immortal  fame  and  they  whose  praise 
Was  never  sounded  in  the  ears  of  men,  — 
Archon  and  priest,  and  the  poor  common  crowd, — 
All  the  vast  concourse  in  the  halls  of  death  I 
Shall  waken  from  the  dreams  of  silent  years 
To  hail  the  dawn  of  immortal  day. 

Aye,  learn  the  lesson.     Though  the  worm  shall  be 

Thy  brother  in  the  mystery  of  death  ! 

And  all  shall  pass,  humble  and  proud  and  gay 

Together,  to  earth's  mighty  charnel-house. 

Yet  the  Immortal  is  thy  heritage  ! 

The  grave  shall  gather  thee  !  —  Yet  thou  shalt  come, 

Beggar  or  prince,  not  as  thou  wentest  forth 

In  rags  or  purple,  but  arrayed  as  those 

Whose  mortal  puts  on  immortality  ! 

Then  mourn  not  when  thou  markest  the  decay 
Of  Nature,  and  her  solemn  hymn  of  death 
Steals  with  a  note  of  sadness  to  thy  heart. 
That  other  voice,  with  its  rejoicing  tones, 
Breaks  from  the  mould  with  every  bursting  flower. 
'  O  grave  !  thy  victory  !  '     And  thou,  O  man. 
Burdened  with  sorrow  at  the  woes  that  crowd 
Thy  narrow  heritage,  lift  up  thy  head 
In  the  strong  hope  of  the  undying  life, 
And  shout  the  Hymn  of  Immortality. 


214  EDWARD    P.    WESTON. 

The  dear  departed  that  have  passed  away 
To  the  still  house  of  death,  leaving  thine  own, 
The  gray-haired  sire  that  died  in  blessing  thee, 
Mother  or  swect-lippcd  babe,  or  she  who  gave 
Thy  home  the  light  and  bloom  of  Paradise, — 
They  shall  be  thine  again,  when  thou  shalt  pass 
At  God's  appointment,  through  the  shadowy  vale, 
To  reach  the  sunlight  of  the  immoktal  hills. 

And  thou  that  gloriest  to  lie  down  with  kings. 
Thine  uncrowned  head  now  lowlier  than  theirs, 
Seek  thou  the  loftier  glory  to  be  known, 
A  king  and  priest  to  God,  —  when  thou  shalt  pass 
Forth  from  the  silent  halls  to  take  thy  place 
With  patriarchs  and  prophets,  and  the  blest 
Gone  up  from  every  land  to  people  heaven. 

So  live,  that  when  the  mighty  caravan, 
"Which  halts  one  night-time  in  the  vale  of  Death, 
Shall  strike  its  white  tents  for  the  morning  march, 
Thou  shalt  mount  onward  to  the  Eternal  Hills 
Thy  foot  unwearied,  and  thy  strengh  renewed 
Like  the  strong  eagle's  for  the  upward  flight ! 


EDWARD    P,    AVESTON.  215 


LINES 

WTIITTEN  AT   THE  F.\LLS   OF   THE   PASSAIC. 

A  LONE  wayfarer  from  the  northern  land 

I  press  thy  dizzy  Verge,  O  rushing  stream, 

And  gaze  far  down  the  terrible  gorge,  where  thou 

Art  madly  plunging,  —  and  my  heart  is  full. 

I  have  looked  down  where  broader  cataracts 

Rush  with  a  hoarser  thunder,  and  have  gone 

Bearing  but  idle  images  away. 

But  thou,  O  sacred  stream,  within  my  heart 

Hast  held  thy  place  with  unforgotten  things, 

Ev'n  from  the  morning  light  of  memory, 

Linked  with  her  name  who  perished  in  thy  waves.  (/) 

And  now  thou  givest  to  my  tearful  gaze 

A  voice  of  sympathy,  that  shall  henceforth 

Re-echo  in  my  heart,  not  as  a  tone 

Of  simple  and  glad  beauty,  but  a  voice 

Of  majesty,  sublime  in  tenderness  ! 

That   tale  of  terror  from  my  mother's  lips. 

That  quivered  telling  it,  —  the  fearful  plunge 

Down  the  wild  steep  to  whirling  depths  below. 

That  quenched  forever  the  sweet  life  of  one 

So  fair,  so  beautiful,  —  the  one  lone  flower 

That  breathed  its  fragrance  on  a  sister's  path,  — 

How  hast  thou  told  it  mournfully  again 

To  the  sad  listener  bending  o'er  thy  brink  ! 

I  ask  thee — and  no  word  is  answered —  "why  ? 


Why  from  the  bosom  of  that  ancient  home 
Went  forth  its  idol  and  its  best  beloved, 
A  bride  but  then,  —  a  bridal  gift  to  thee  ?   (?«) 
Thou  answerest  not.     Ev'n  as  thou  wrappest  up 
Thy  waters  when  thou  plungest,  God  hath  wrapped 
His  providence  in  clouds,  nor  gives  thee  leave 
To  unveil  the  mystery.     But  as  within 
Thy  pillared  mists,  the  sunbeam  writes  itself 
In  seven-fold  lines  of  promise  and  of  hope, 
That  arcb  to  heaven,  so  Faith  with  golden  light 
Traces  the  bow  of  promise  on  God's  cloud, 
And  marks  her  radiant  pathway  to  the  skies. 
And  thou,  green  cedar,  waving  o'er  the  brink,  («) 
Planted  of  God  to  mark  her  stepping  stone 
From  earth  to  heaven,  —  0  breath  perennial 
Thy  choicest  fragrance  on  this  hallowed  air, 
And  wear  thy  verdurous  crown  unperishing  ; 
Even  as  her  memory  liveth,  beautiful  one, 
Fadeless  and  fragrant  in  our  heart  of  hearts. 
And  thou,  sweet  spirit,  by  this  gateway  gone, 
Comest  thou  hither  on  the  viewless  wing 
When  shadows  of  the  evening  fall,  as  now  ? 
!My  spirit  yearneth  toward  thee,  and  my  song 
Would  bear  its  holiest  offering,  as  is  meet 
To  such  as  thou.     O  chide  not  if  I  bring 
More  than  a  stranger's  gift ;  if  in  my  song 
There  breathes  the  burden  of  another's  heart, 
Stricken  with  terror  in  the  dreadful  hour 
Such  tidings  came.     The  voice  of  eloquence 
That  charmed  thy  willing  ear  and  won  thy  love, 
And  licrs  who  blessed  thee  with  maternal  care. 
Call  thee  no  longer. 


EDWARD    P.    WESTON.  217 


THE  OCEAN-BURIED. 

Down  fathoms  unnumbered, 

Beneath  the  dark  sea, 
Where  thousands  have  slumbered, 

There  slumbereth  he. 
Above  the  cold  billow 

No  marble  may  rise. 
Nor  cypress,  nor  willow, 

May  tell  where  he  lies. 

Yet  hearts  have  enshrined  him, 

And  love  fondly  keeps 
An  eye  that  shall  find  him. 

Wherever  he  sleeps- 
The  wild  waves  are  tramping. 

The  rude  tempest  blows, 
Yet  angels  encamping. 

Guard  all  his  repose. 

His  rest  he  is  taking, 

'Till  glory's  bright  morn 
Shall  bring  his  awakening  — 

Immortality  born. 
Then  mourn  not  to  leave  him, 

Since  Mercy  hath  said, 
'  Your  faith  shall  receive  him 

Again  from  the  dead.' 


19 


TO  ONE  ABSENT. 

Liglit  from  these  sombre  halls, 
Hath  gone,  dear  ^larj^  with  thy  sunny  smile, 
And  the  chill  presence  of  a  cloud,  the  while, 

Around  me  falls. 

Morning  in  golden  streams, 
Pours  in  upon  me  from  the  rising  day,  — 
But  there's  no  gladness  in  its  brightest  ray, 

Without  thy  beams. 

Evening  with  lighted  lamps, 
To  cheer  my  solitude  essays  in  vain ; 
The  falling  darkness,  like  an  April  rain 

My  spirit  damps. 

I  wait  your  coming  long, 
"Wife  of  my  youth,  and  those  dear  babes  of  ours 
"Welcome  your  light  again  within  these  bowers. 

Welcome  your  song. 


THINE  TILL  DEATH. 

Thet  tell  mc  that  life  liath  a  stormy  sea, 
Dare  I  trust  my  bark  on  its  waves  with  thee? 
Dare  I  give  thee  the  hope  of  a  sunny  youth, 
And  venture  my  all  on  thy  words  of  truth? 

They  tell  me  that  love  is  a  word  for  pain, 
For  an  aching  heart  and  a  throbbing  brain; 
They  tell  me  that  trust  is  a  word  for  tears, 
For  a  waking  dream  of  tempestuous  fears. 

Vet  I  hear  thee  talk — with  a  pleasant  smile, 
And  thy  dear  hand  clasping  my  own  the  while  — 
Of  a  love  that  the  fondest  and  truest  will  be. 
When  the  dark  storm  of  woe,  sweeps  over  life's  sea. 

With  thee!  with  theeI  ♦hoii  hast  won  the  prize, 
I  have  read  thy  hqprt  through  thy  fond  blue  eyes, 
My  soul  has  drank  deep  of  thy  passion  breath, 
My  spirit  is  won — I  am  thine  till  deaiu! 


HARRIET  MARION   STEPHENS. 

AGE,  31  YEARS. 

Miss  Harriet  j\I.  AT^^^JLL,  now  known  in  the  literary  world  as 
Mrs.  H.  INIarion  Stephens,  was  born  on  the  thu-d  day  of  July, 
1823,  and  is  a  daughter  of  Rev.  John  Atwell,  who  has  been  for 
forty  years  a  prominent  minister  of  the  ]Maine  ^Methodist  Conference. 
She  was  born  in  the  romantic  town  of  Sichiey,  Kennebec  County,  upon 
the  banks  of  the  Kennebec  River.  In  early  youth  she  left  her  native 
Sta  te,  and  for  many  years  after  resided  at  the  South.  It  was  while 
here  that  she  first  began  to  cultivate  her  native  talent,  which,  in  itself, 
Avas  of  no  inferior  order,  and  under  the  simple  and  modest  no7)i  de 
guerre  of 'Marion  Ward,'  she  commenced  contributing  to  the  '  Phila- 
delpliia  Saturday  Coiu-ier,'  and  as  her  young  mind  became  more  and 
more  cultivated  and  enriched,  her  productions  were  sought  for  by 
many  of  the  most  jjopular  magazines  and  journals.  She  was  married 
in  Charleston,  S.  C,  on  the  12th  of  February,  1848,  to  Mr.  Richard 
Stephen^,  and  during  the  following  year  removed  to  the  City  of  Bos- 
ton, where  she  has  resided  the  greater  portion  of  her  time.  She  is 
an  actress  of  some  distinction,  and,  with  her  husband,  has  played  a 
number  of  engagements  at  many  of  the  principal  Theatres  in  New 
England,  although  we  believe  she  has  retired  from  the  stage  for  the 
present,  if  not  permanently.  Mrs.  Stephens  was  at  one  time  editress 
of  the  '  The  Golden  Age,'  a  monthly  magazine,  published  by  Dr.  Ayer, 
now  local  editor  of  the  Boston  Chronicle.  Since  this  magazine  was 
discontinued,  she  has  been  a  contributor  to  a  large  number  of  the  pe- 
riodicals, in  all  parts  of  the  country,  devoting  her  entire  attention  to 
hterary  matters.  At  present  she  writes  a  great  deal  for  the  '  Boston 
Daily  Times,' '  Gleason's  Pictorial,'  and  the  '  American  Union.'  In  the 
month  of  January,  1854,  she  issued,  from  the  press  of  Fetridge  &  Co., 
19* 


Boston, '  Home  Scenes,  and  Home  Sounds  ;  or  the  World  from  my 
A^'indow ;'  a  volume  of  three  hundred  pages,  comj)rising  a  collection  of 
her  best  sketches, '  hurry-graphs'  and  poems.  In  her  ])reface  she  very 
frankly  says,  *  I  can't  even  say  I  could  do  better  than  I  have  done  by 
the  odds  and  ends  of  tliis  simple  volume,  for  I  couldn't.  Good  or  bad, 
these  sketches  are  my  he.st.^ 

Mrs.  Stephens  has  a  volume  now  in  press,  entitled  'Passion  and 
Heality,'  to  be  issued  by  Fetridge  &  Co.,  diuring  the  month  of  November, 
and  it  promises  to  add  much  to  her  popularity.  Iler  poetry  finds 
friends  wherever  it  goes,  for  it  comes  to  the  heart  on  the  wings  of 
Love,  with  whose  sweet  fragi-ance  it  is  so  highly  scented.  '  I  Love  to 
Love,'  is  a  little  gem  of  rare  beauty,  and  found  its  way  into  '  Read's 
Female  Poets  of  America,'  with  merely  the  simple  name  of '  Marion 
Ward '  attached  to  it. 

'  I  LOVE  to  love,'  said  a  darlinpj  pet, 
Whose  soul  looked  out  through  her  eyes  of  jet, 
And  she  nestled  down  like  a  fondled  dove 
And  lisped, '  Dear  Mamma,  how  I  love  to  love!' 

'  I  love  to  love,'  said  a  maiden  bright, 
And  her  words  gushed  forth  like  a  stream  of  light. 
And  thrilled  to  the  heart  of  a  suppliant  there, 
With  a  ripple,  soft  a,  an  angel's  prayer. 

'  I  love  to  love,'  said  a  new-made-bride, 

As  she  gazed  on  the  loved  one  by  her  side, 
And  she  clung  to  his  arm  in  the  star  lit  grove, 
And  breathed  on  his  lips, '  How  I  love  to  love!' 

'  I  love  to  love,'  said  a  mother  blest. 

As  her  lirstborn  lay  like  a  rose  on  her  breast, 

And  she  thought  as  she  smoothed  down  its  silken  hair, 

That  nothing  on  earth  could  be  half  so  fair. 

And  thus,  as  we  sail  o'er  the  ocean  of  life. 
Love  pours  out  its  oil  on  the  desert  of  strife, 
And  swiftly  our  hark  nears  the  luu  en  above, 
Wiii.e  tfe'oi;  somcth  ng  t.t  hope  for  ani  something  to  love. 


H.    MAKION    STEPHENS.  223 


SONG  OF  THE  IMPROVISATRICE. 

Thehk's  a  balm  on  the  air,  and  it  drifts  along 
Like  the  fragrant  breath  of  a  fairy  throng ; 
There's  a  spell  of  love  on  the  restless  deep. 
And  the  winds  are  still,  and  the  waves  asleep: 
And  the  frinsred  lids  of  the  summer  flowers 
Are  folded  down  in  their  woodland  bowers  ; 
But  their  lips  are  bright  with  a  dewy  flush  — 
Do  tlicy  dream  of  love,  through  the  twilight  hush  ? 

'Tis  night,  and  the  clouds,  with  their  gorgeous  dyes, 

Have  melted  away  in  the  pearl-blue  skies  ; 

'Tis  night,  and  the  moon  from  her  shadowy  land 

Has  girdled  the  sea  with  a  silver  band ; 

Yet  sorrowful  strains  o'er  my  bosom  sweep. 

Till  my  heart  is  full,  and  my  eyes  must  weep  ; 

For  I  miss  a  voice  with  its  music  tone, 

And  murmur  in  sadness.  Alone,  alone  ! 

Alone,  all  alone  !     I  am  thinking  now 

Of  a  star-bright  eye  and  a  noble  brow  ; 

But  I  miss  kind  words,  and  the  dimple  smile, 

And  a  dear  hand  clasping  my  own  the  while. 

'  Mine  oion,  mine  own  !  '     'Tis  a  worn-out  strain, 

Oft  spoken  in  rapture,  oft  breathed  in  disdain  ; 

Yet  the  wildest  bliss  that  the  world  has  known 

Is  found  in  that  sentence  —  '  Mine   own,  mine  own  !  ' 


224: 


II.    MAKIOX    STEPHENS. 


My  soul  was  dark,  and  a  wild  unrest, 
Like  a  deatli-sliroud,  lay  on  my  lonely  breast ; 
But  the  shadow  passed,  and  I  knew  not  how 
Till  thy  lips  were  pressed  to  my  burning  brow  ! 
The  mist  dissolved,  for  the  night  had  gone, 
And  the  beautiful  tints  of  a  holy  dawn 
Swept  over  my  heart  with  a  mighty  change, 
And  filled  it  with  melody  deep  and  strange. 

Thou  hast  gone  from  me  now,  and  I  will  not  tell 
Of  the  wild,  wild  thoughts  which  my  bosom  swell ; 
It  would  give  too  much  to  thy  earnest  heart  — 
Leaving  too  little  for  faith  to  impart ! 
Thy  spirit  is  with  me  —  thou  canst  not  forget  — 
Thou'lt  think  of  me  ever  with  saddened  regret ; 
Fate  7nay  have  bereft  me  — it  cannot  control, 
For  thou  art  my  being  —  the  life  of  my  soul ! 

'Tis  night  on  the  mountain  —  'tis  night  on  the  sea  : 
Ller  star-'broidered  mantle  drapes  forest  and  lea  : 
Bird  music  is  hushed,  and  the  streams  are  still, 
And  the  wild  leaves  throb  with  a  passionate  thrill ! 
Sleep  on!  —  sweetly  sleep!  —  Be  tliy  dreams  as  bright 
As  thy  soul  is  strong  in  its  power  and  might ; 
Sleep  on  —  sweetly  sleep,  nor  list  to  the  moan 
Of  the  minstrel  heart,  for  it  weeps  alone  I 


II.    MAKIOX    STEPHENS. 


OO"^ 


MY  GRAVE. 

O  !  BURY  me  not  in  the  sunless  tomb, 
When  Death  in  its  chain  has  bound  me  ; 

Let  me  not  sleep  where  the  shadows  loom, 
In  the  stifled  air  around  me  ; 

Where  the  bones  of  the  scarce-remembered  dead 

Keep  a  ghastly  watch  round  my  coffin  bed  ! 

O,  bury  me  not  'mid  the  ceaseless  hum 

Of  the  city's  wild  commotion, 
Where  the  steps  of  a  thoughtless  crowd  might  come, 

Like  the  waves  of  a  troubled  ocean. 
In  the  eye  of  love  should  a  tear-drop  start, 
'Twould  crush  it  back  on  the  swollen  heart ! 


But  bury  me  out  in  the  wild,  wild  wood, 
Where  the  sunlit  leaves  are  dancing. 

Where  the  rills  leap  out  with  a  merry  shout, 
And  the  brooks  in  the  light  are  glancing  ; 

Let  my  bed  be  made  by  the  fond  and  true. 

Who  can  bear  to  weep  when  I'm  shut  from  view. 

In  the  forest  home  —  in  the  wild  wood  home  — 

With  the  arching  limbs  above  me. 
Where  the  sunbeams  creep  for  a  quiet  sleep, 

To  my  grave,  like  dear  friends  that  love  me, 
Let  me  rest  'mid  the  bloom  of  the  pure  and  fair ; 
I  should  know  that  the  blossoms  I  loved  were  there. 


OOfi 


II.    MARION    STEPHENS. 


TO  ONE  AFAR. 

Tiiou  art  not  here  !     The  midnight  stars  are  paling 
And  drooping  one  by  one  from  out  the  sky  ! 

The  night  wind  comes  to  me  with  wiklcr  wailing, 
As  echo  of  my  heart  —  thou  art  not  by  ! 

Yet  like  the  stars  my  heart  and  hopes  are  creeping 

To  that  dear  home  where  thou,  my  love,  art  sleei:)ing. 

Thou'rt  all  my  own  !  for,  like  an  angel's  blessing. 
Slumber  her  woof  of  dreams  hath  o'er  thee  thrown  ! 

Dost  thou  not  feel  my  lips  to  thine  now  pressing  ? 
Art  not  my  arms  entwined  amid  thine  own  ? 

Ah,  blessed  sleep !  I  too  might  share  it,  only 

Thou  art  not  here,  and  I  am  more  than  lonely. 


It  may  be,  dear,  that  I  am  only  dreaming  ; 

But  life  hath  grown  more  pleasant  than  of  yore  ; 
And  from  thy  lips  love  hath  a  holier  seeming, 

And  life  more  hopes  and  aims  than  heretofore  : 
It  may  be,  there  will  come  a  dark  to-morrow, 
And  my  heart  waken  to  a  world  of  sorrow. 

My  spirit  moans  for  thee  !     I  cannot  hush  it ! 

Its  pleadings  haunt  the  stillness  of  this  hour  ! 
Mj  heart  is  in  thy  clasp !     Ah,  do  not  crush  it 

As  a  Avanton  plaything,  or  an  idle  flower  ! 
Morn  may  restore  the  flower,  its  bloom  departed  — 
But  there's  no  morning  for  the  broken  hearted  ! 


H.    MAKION    STEPHENS. 


007 


TO  A  SONGSTRESS. 

I  DO  not  know  thee  —  save  by  thoughts  that  linger, 
Dream-like  and  beautiful  upon  my  heart  — 

When  my  rapt  soul,  forgetful  of  the  singer, 
Loses  itself  in  wonder  at  thy  art ! 

I  do  not  know  thee,  lady  ;  yet  full  well 

My  spirit  bows  it  to  thy  mystic  spell. 

I  do  not  know  thee !  yet  when  stars  are  beaming 
In  softening  lustre  at  the  evening  hour, 

I  seek  the  spot  where  thy  bright  eyes  are  gleaming. 
And  yield  me  captive  to  their  witching  power ! 

To  see  thee  —  hear  thee  —  silently  to  trace 

Flashings  of  genius  on  thy  lovely  face  ! 

I  do  not  know  thee  !  yet  my  weary  spirit 
In  hours  of  absence,  kneeling  at  thy  shrine, 

Breathes  out  a  prayer  that  it  may  yet  inherit 

One  gleam  of  light  like  that  which  falls  from  thine. 

Yet  with  such  gift,  my  heart,  in  its  excess, 

Would  die  beneath  its  wealth  of  blissfulness  ! 

I  do  not  know  thee !  yet  when  flowers  are  springing, 
W^hen  summer  song-birds  tales  of  joyance  tell, 

I'll  think  I  hear  thy  voice  in  concert  singing  ; 

My  heart  will  grow  more  human  'neath  the  spell. 

May  thy  soul's  sunshine,  undimmed  by  tears, 

Brighten  the  rugged  path  of  onward  years  ! 


li 


228  H.    MARION    STEPHENS. 


FAREWELL. 

Farewell  !  farewell  for  aye  ! 
Not  when  my  heart  is  aching  'neath  the  weight 

Of  utter  loneliness  —  not  when  the  knell 
Of  dying  hope  comes  with  its  bitter  freight 

Of  wordless  agony  and  woe,  to  tell 
How  giant  passions,  kindled  into  life. 
Have  drooped  and  perished  'neath  the  world's  cold  strife ; 

Not  in  such  scenes  of  tumult  and  unrest, 
Shall  thoughts  of  thee  commingle  in  my  breast. 

But  when  Forgetfulness  her  watch  shall  keep, 

With  folded  wing,  by  Passion's  turbid   shore  ; 
"When  o'er  my  heart  sweet  memories  come  like  sleep, 

And  the  soul  dreams  its  strife  is  haply  o'er ; 
Then  shall  the  past  gleam  out  a  ray  of  light ! 

A  fairy  isle  on  life's  tumultuous  sea ! 
Like  stars  that  lit  the  wasting  soul's  dark  night 

Shall  be  the  memories  that  still  cling  to  thee. 
Farewell !  farewell  for  aye  ! 


TRUTH. 


Truth  will  prevail,  though  men  abhor 

The  glory  of  its  liiiht, 
And  wao;e  exterminatinp;  war 

And  put  all  foes  to  fli,i,'lit. 

Though  trodden  under  foot  of  men, 
Truth  from  the  dust  will  spring, 

And  from  the  press— the  lip — the  pen — 
lu  tones  of  thunder  ring. 

Beware — beware,  ye  who  resist 
The  light  that  beams  around, 

Lest,  ere  you  look  through  error's  mist. 
Truth  strikes  you  to  the  ground. 


DANIEL   C.  COLESWORTHY. 

AGE,  44  YEARS. 

D.  C.  CoLESWORTHY,  is  a  native  of  Portland,  -where  he  resided 
for  nearly  forty  years.  He  was  born  on  the  fourteenth  day  of  July, 
1810,  and  at  the  age  of  fourteen,  entered  the  office  of  the  Chris- 
tian INIirror,  as  an  apjjrentice  to  the  printing  business.  Like  many 
other  young  men  of  talent,  ambition,  and  perseverance,  he  educated 
liimself,  and  graduated  from  the  printing  office  -with  cUstinguished  honor 
to  the  craft.  In  1830  he  commenced  the  publication  of  a  '  Youth's 
Paper'  at  Portland,  and  continued  it  until  1835.  After  a  lapse  of  five 
years  he  started  the  '  Portland  Tribmic,'  a  literary  weekly,  to  Avhich 
John  Neal,  WilHam  Cutter,  ^Irs.  E.  Oakes  Smith,  S.  B.  Beckett,  and 
others,  were  contributors.  While  editing  tliis  journal  jSIr.  Coleswor- 
thy  became  knowTi  by  his  brother  typos  from  Maine  to  Georgia,  and 
his  articles  were  copied  more  than  those  of  any  editor  m  the  country. 
They  were  characterized  by  simplicity,  earnestness,  and  bore  the  sign 
of  truth  and  wtue  in  every  Hue.  Elihu  Burritt,  the  learned  Black- 
smith, ui  an  article  upon  Mr.  Colesworthy's  literary  productions,  writes 
thus  : — 

*No  one  of  our  acquaintance  has  contributed  to  the  great  circulat- 
ing medium  of  the  press,  more  terse,  pleasant,  cheering-up  articles 
for  the  young,  just  laimcliing  out  upon  the  uucertain  sea  of  life,  and 
for  those  who,  like  Peter,  were  well-nigh  sinking  beneath  its  singes. 
Not  a  paper,  from  Maine  to  Missouri,  comes  to  our  hands,  wliich  does 
not  contain  one  of  his  beautiful  articles,  of  energetic  brevity  and  robust 
humor  and  humanity.  Who  can  tell  how  many  thousands  of  falter- 
ing hearts  and  trembluig,  pendent  hands  have  been  sti-ung  to  new 
hope  and  effort  by  his  cheering  words.  The  bright-eyed  genius  of  his 
poetry  looks  hope-ward  and  heaven-ward,  beckoiung  the  orphan,  the 


232  DANIEL    C.    COLESWOllTIIY. 

liourt-broken  and  the  homeless  to  a  home  and  a  heaven  in  the  lieart 
of  God  and  humanity  ;  \\Teatlung  every  lowering  cloud  with  a  rain- 
bow of  i)romise,  imveiling  an  angel's  wing  in  every  rift  of  the  scowling 
tempest.' 

lie  has  Avrittcn  numerous  little  poems  full  of  tenderness  and 
overflowing  with  simplicitj'  and  grace,  which  have  found  a  welcome 
in  every  heart  possessed  of  the  finer  feelings  of  our  nature.  Who  can 
read  the  following  beautiful  little  gem  of  his,  and  not  feel  that  it  has 
brought  home  a  lesson  of  truth  to  liis  heart,  one  that  he  has  never  be- 
fore heeded,  because  it  did  not  come  to  him,  as  now,  clothed  in  a 
smiling  sunbeam  of  thought  that  melted  its  way  into  the  coldness  of 
his  heart's  chambers. 

A  little  word  in  kindness  spoken, 

A  motion  or  a  tear, 
Has  often  healed  the  heart  that's  broken. 

And  made  a  friend  sincere. 

A  word — a  look — has  crushed  to  earth 

Full  many  a  budding  flower, 
Which,  had  a  smile  but  owned  its  birth, 

Would  bless  life"s  darkest  hour. 

Then  deem  it  not  an  idle  thing, 

A  pleasant  word  to  speak; 
The  face  you  wear,  the  thoughts  you  bring, 

A  heart  may  heal  or  break. 

Mr.  Colesworthy  has  been  engaged  in  the  book  business  for  the 
past  twenty  years,  fifteen  of  wliich  were  passed  in  Portland,  the  re- 
mainder in  the  city  of  Boston,  to  which  he  removed  in  1849,  and 
where  he  still  resides,  devoting  liis  time  almost  entu'ely  to  mercantile 

pursuits. 


DANIEL    C.    COLESWORTHY. 

233 

YOUR  BROTHER. 

TuKN  not  from  your  brother 

Who  strangely  has  crr'd, 

Nor  speak  as  in  anger 

A  harsh,  bitter  word  : 

In  kindness  approach  him  — 

"With  tenderness  speak  — 

If  vicious,  be  gentle  — 

Support  him,  if  weak. 

Kind  words  and  compassion  ! 

• 

Sure  weapons  to  save 
The  fallen  and  erring, 

And  snatch  from  the  grave. 
Ye  all  have  the  power. 

Though  humble  and  poor, 
These  weapons  to  use 

And  the  lost  to  restore. 

Go  then  to  your  brother 

Just  turning  away 
From  wisdom  and  virtue, 

And  be  his  strong  stay. 
No  moment  is  wasted. 

No  words  are  in  vain, 
When  the  lost  and  the  erring 

To  virtue  you  gain. 

' 

20* 

234:  DANIEL    C.    COLESWORTIIY. 


ONE  DEED  OF  KINDNESS. 

One  deed  of  kindness  every  day 

Be  earnest  to  perform  ; 
One  mite  give  to  the  poor  away  — 

One  shelter  from  the  storm. 

One  word  of  comfort  speak  to  him 
Whose  brow  is  dark  with  care  ; 

One  smile  for  her  whose  eyes  are  dim 
By  sickness  or  despair. 

One  look  of  kind  compassion  give  — 

One  motion  or  a  sigh  ; 
One  breath  to  bid  the  dying  live  — 

One  prayer  to  God  on  high. 

What  joy  one  moment  may  impart, 

If  it  is  spent  aright ! 
One  moment  saves  the  broken  heart 

And  puts  despair  to  flight. 

All  can  bestow  most  precious  gifts  — 
The  weak,  the  low,  the  poor ; 

The  feeling  heart  from  sorrow  lifts 
To  Heaven's  wide-open  door. 


DANIEL    C.    COLESWORTHY.  235 


DON'T  KILL  THE  BIRDS. 

Don't  kill  the  birds  —  the  little  birds 

That  sing  about  your  door, 
Soon  as  the  joyous  spring  has  come, 

And  chilling  storms  are  o'er, 
The  little  birds,  how  sweet  they  sing  ! 

O,  let  them  joyous  live  ; 
And  never  seek  to  take  the  life 

Which  you  can  never  give. 

Don't  kill  the  birds  —  the  little  birds 

That  play  among  the  trees  ; 
'Twould  make  the  earth  a  cheerless  place, 

Should  we  dispense  with  these. 
The  little  birds,  how  fond  they  play  ! 

Do  not  disturb  their  sport ; 
But  let  them  warble  forth  their  songs, 

Till  winter  cuts  them  short. 

Don't  kill  the  birds  —  the  happy  birds 

That  bless  the  field  and  grove  ; 
So  innocent  to  look  upon. 

They  claim  our  warmest  love. 
The  happy  birds —  the  tuneful  birds, 

How  pleasant  'tis  to  see  ; 
No  spot  can  be  a  cheeiless  place 

Where'er  their  presence  be. 


236  DANIEL    C.    COLES  WORTHY. 


BE  NOT  DISCOURAGED. 

Be  never  discouraged  — 

Look  up  and  look  on ; 
When  the  prospect  is  darkest 

The  cloud  is  withdrawn  : 
The  shadows  that  blacken 

The  earth  and  the  sky, 
Speak  to  the  strong-hearted, 

Salvation  is  nigh. 

Be  never  discouraged  — 

Mock,  mock  at  the  tears 
That  fall  in  your  pathway, 

And  laugh  at  the  fears 
That  sometimes  will  darken 

The  sunniest  face  ; 
Push  on  and  be  foremost 

In  the  van  of  ihe  race. 

Be  never  discouraged  — 

The  heart  that  will  quail 
And  sink  at  a  spectre, 

How  can  it  prevail  ? 
From  morning  till  sunset 

'Tis  cheerless  and  still, 
As  the  shadows  that  slumber 

On  the  bleak,  icy  hill. 


DANIEL    C,    COLESWORTHY. 


237 


Be  never  discouraged  — 
The  true  and  the  wise, 
While  others  are  waiting, 

Secure  the  rich  prize  : 
No  object  of  terror, 
•     No  word  of  alarm. 
Shall  hinder  their  progress, 
Or  stay  the  strong  arm. 

Be  never  discouraged, 

If  you  would  secure 
The  earth's  richest  blessings 

And  make  heaven  sure, 
Yield  not  in  the  battle. 

Nor  quail  in  the  blast ; 
The  brave  and  unyielding 

Win  nobly  at  last. 


Be  never  discouraged  — 

By  day  and  by  night 
Have  glory  in  prospect 

And  wisdom  in  sight ; 
Undaunted  and  faithful. 

You  never  will  fail, 
Though  kingdoms  oppose  you 

And  devils  assail. 


238  DANIEL   C.    COLESWORTHY. 


LET  US  DO  GOOD. 

Let  us  do  good.     How  sweet  the  thought, 
Wc  have  the  wretched  blest  — 

Threw  smiles  upon  a  clouded  brow. 
And  sunshine  in  the  breast  I 

To  know  we've  dried  a  single  tear, 
And  made  one  moment  bright  — 

Or  struck  a  feeble  spark  to  cheer 
The  darkest  hour  of  night  — 

Will  give  to  us  more  joy  at  last 
Than  Ceesar's  triumphs  gave  ; 

The  memory  of  such  deeds  will  live 
In  worlds  beyond  the  grave. 

Then  in  the  little  sphere  we  move, 
Let  kindness  touch  the  heart ; 

While  every  word  shall  lead  to  love 
And  happiness  impart. 


TRUE  FAME. 

SUGGESTED  BY  CHANTRY's  STATUE  OF  WASHINGTON. 

"Who  hath  not  lioped  for  immortality? 
And  what  is  immortality  ?— to  be 
Awhile  remombercd,  Avlicn  the  heart  is  cold, 
And  o'er  the  nerveless  hand  liath  crept  the  mould 
Of  the  damp  sepulchre?  to  be  heralded 
By  the  loud  trump  of  Fame,  when  life  hath  fled, 
Until  even  its  echo  hath  gone  past 
And  perished  in  the  abyss  of  ages  ?    No! 
It  is  to  live  while  memory  shall  last, 
Shrined  deep  within  the  heart— the  ceaseless  flow 
Of  centuries  only  adding  to  the  sum 
Of  the  world's  gratitude!  'tis  to  become 
The  embodied  soul  of  genius!— such  a  one, 
As  the  eye  gazeth  on — even  M'ashisgton. 


WILLIAM    G.   CROSBY. 

Hon.  William  G.  Crosby,  the  present  "Whig  Governor  of 
tliis  State,  is  a  native  of  the  city  of  Belfast,  where  he  now  resides, 
engaged  in  the  practice  of  law.  He  is  an  alumnus  of  Bowdoin  College 
and  one  of  the  '  Bov,'doin  Poets,'  spoken  of  in  our  sketch  of  Mr.  Weston. 
While  a  member  of  this  institution  he  devoted  himself  quite  success- 
fully to  the  Muses,  and  we  believe  published  a  small  volume  of  poems, 
although  he  writes  us  that  he  never  meets  any  of  his  old  productions 
>vithout  a  strong  desire  to  disclaim  their  authorship,  and  cast  them 
into  oblivion.  Notwithstanding  this,  we  feel  obliged,  owmg  to  the 
superior  merit  of  liis  poetry,  and  the  prominent  positions  wliich  he  has 
occupied  m  the  literary  world,  to  place  him  among  the  Native  Poets 
of  Maine.  Of  late  years,  he  his  written  but  very  little,  and  that  prose, 
although  his  poetry  is  of  a  higher  order,  and  is  better  calcukted  to 
show  the  true  character  and  depth  of  his  talent. 

The  works  to  which  Air.  Crosby  contributed,  when  devoting  his 
unoccupied  moments  to  literary  recreation,  were  of  the  most  pojjular 
kind  then  published.  'Among  others,  were  '  The  Token,'  a  Boston 
Annual,  echted  by  Nathaniel  P.  Willis,  and  other  distinguished  literary 
men.  '  The  Legendary,'  a  work  illustrating  scenes,  manners,  and 
legends  of  our  country,  and  of  which  we  have  alluded  to  more  fully  in 
our  other  sketches ;  and  the '  Bowdoin  Poets.'  He  is  introduced  into 
'  Specimens  of  American  Poetry,'  a  work  in  three  volumes,  edited  by 
Samuel  Kettell,  and  published  by  S.  G.  Goodrich  &  Co.,  Boston,  in 
1829.  In  the  '  Biographical  Sketch,'  of  a  few  lines  only,  the  editor 
introduces  him  as  '  the  author  of  Poetical  Illustrations  of  the  Atheneum 
Gallery,  besides  various  other  performances  in  verse.'    The   poem 

21 


OJ.O 


WILLIAM    G.    CROSBY. 


given  ill  that  Avork  as  a  specimen  of  Mr.  Crosby's  poetry ,was  one 
entitled,  *  To  a  Lady,  mth  a  AVithered  Leaf,'  which  we  have  included 
in  this  volume. 

For  several  years  Mr.  Crosby  has  been  engaged  in  political  matters, 
and  filled  several  offices  of  importance  and  trust  connected  with  the 
affairs  of  State  and  jjublic  movements.  It  cannot  be  expected  that  a 
man,  however  gifted  and  however  highly  and  delicately  cultivated  liis 
mind  maybe,  who  goes  into  the  arena  of  political  strife,  amid  its  calum- 
nies, intrigues,  and  debasing  influences,  can  retain,  to  any  honorable 
extent  a  companionship  with  the  Muse.  A  man  whose  mind  has  been 
cultivated,  as  his  has  been,  should  find  a  sphere  of  greater  usefuhiess 
far  removed  ii-om  such  scenes,  where  he  could  do  honor  to  himself,  to 
his  friends,  and  to  the  noble  gifts  which  nature  has  endowed  liim  Avith. 
How  much  happier,  and  more  peacefully  would  his  pathway  down  the 
slope  of  declining  years  be  made,  and  how  much  more  calmly  and 
resignedly  would  he  go  down  into  his  grave,  over  wliich  the  voice  of 
calumny,  enmity,  and  political  wrongs  would  never  be  breathed. 


WILLIAM    G.    CROSBY.  243 


TELLING  THE  DREAM. 

'Tis  a  most  beauteous  night !     lanthe,  come  ! 
Wilt  thou  walk  forth  ?     Oh  !  I  am  sick  at  heart 
Of  this"  gay  revelry.     Its  busy  hum 
Falls  heavy  on  mine  ear.     I  cannot  laugh 
With  these  light-hearted  laughers,  and  mine  eye 
Is  wearied  with  gazing,     Let  me  fling 
Thy  mantle  round  thee. 

Is't  not  beautiful ! 
The  radiance  of  this  starry  sky  ?     How  pale, 
And  lustreless  are  all  we've  left  behind, 
Compared  with  its  bright  jewelry  !     Perchance 
Chaste  Dian  holds  her  festival  to-night. 
See,  how  she  smiles  !     On  such  an  eve  as  this, 
So  runs  the  tale,  she  left  her  home  in  heaven, 
Lured  thence  to  meet  upon  the  Latmian  hill 
Her  shepherd  boy,  and  placed  upon  his  lips 
The  kiss  of  immortality  !     Poor  youth  ! 
He  only  dreamed  of  bliss.     On  such  a  night, 
The  love-crazed  Sappho  poured  her  latest  song 
Upon  Leucate's  height,  and  swan-like  died. 
She  dreamed  —  but  dreamed  too  madly  !    And,  perchance, 
On  such  a  night,  the  Roman  Antony 
Threw  off  the  crown  and  purple,  and  gave  up 


244  •  V/ILLIAM    G.    CROSBY. 

Glory,  dominion  —  for  a  wanton's  smile  ! 
He  was  a  dreaming  madman —  was  he  not, 
Ian  the,  thus  to  fling  his  all  away, 
For  woman's  smile  ? 

Come,  rest  within  this  bower, 
And  I  will  tell  thee,  though  thy  lips  may  chide. 
And  call  me  '  Dreaming  Boy.'     Yes,  I  have  dreamed 
Perchance  am  dreaming  now  :  but  thou  shalt  hear  : 


'D 


I  had  lain  down  to  slumber  on  a  bank 
Sprinkled  with  violets.     The  plaintive  moan 
Of  far-off  waters,  mingling  with  the  hum 
Of  thousand  busy  insects,  gathering  in 
Each  its  own  store  of  sweets,  filling  the  air 
With  melody,  spread  its  sweet  influence 
O'er  my  lulled  senses,  and  methought.  that  I 
Was  wandering  here,  with  thee  !     'Twas  strange,  lanthe ! 
But  then  the  time,  the  place,  so  like  to  this, 
I  cannot  but  remember.     'Twas  a  night 
Like  this,  save  that  it  wore  the  loveliness 
And  richness  of  a  dream  o'er  all  its  charms. 
The  sporiing  moonbeams  twined  themselves  around 
The  leaves  and  branches  of  the  o'erhanging  trees, 
Like  ivy  round  the  mouldering  monument  — 
Half  seen,  half  hid  —  and  from  their  azure  depths, 
The  stars  were  looking  out  with  eyes  that  watch 
O'er  Nature's  slumbering.     We  had  left  the  hall 
To  lighter  hearts,  and  arm  in  arm  had  strayed 
Through  the  long  winding  mazes  of  the  grove, 
Until,  at  length,  we  reached  this  bower.     One  beam 
Of  moonlight,  streaming  through  its  trellised  roof, 
Fell  on  thy  cheek  ;  methought  it  never  looked 


WILLIAM    G.    CROSBY. 


245 


One  half  so  lovely — and,  indeed,  till  now, 

It  never  did,  lanthe  !     And  then  I  — 

Strange,  that  my  brair^  should  dream  what  my  tongue  fears 

To  utter  even  now  !     'Twas  but  a  dream, 

However,  and  the  masquers  are  not  gone. 

So  I'll  e'en  finish  it  —  well  then,  methought, 

I  told  thee,  though  'twas  in  a  whispered  breath, 

And  softer  than  the  night  wind's  gentlest  sigh. 

How  I  did  love  —  that  was  the  word  —  did  love. 

And  even  worship  thee  !     And  then  I  swore, 

By  Venus,  and  the  starry  train  ahove  — 

By  thy  bright  eyes,  which  did  outrival  them  — 

By  all  love's  fond  remembrances,  that  I 

Would  guard  and  cherish  thee,  wouldst  thou  but  be 

My  own,  my  own  lanthe  !     And  then —  then  — 

Heed  not  my  passionate  dreaming  —  I  did  seal 

My  vow  upon  thy  lips ;  and  then  I  watched 

To  see  them  open,  and  to  hear  thy  voice. 

Steal  forth  in  gentle  murmuring,  like  the  tone 

Of  a  sigh  that  hath  found  utterance.     Then  I  twined 

Mine  arm  around  thee  —  thus  ;  and  placed  thy  cheek 

Upon  my  boscm  —  thus  ;  and  bade  thee  tell, 

Though  'twere. but  with  a  glance,  or  place  thy  heart 

Upon  thy  lips,  and  breathe  it  in  a  kiss. 

If  I  might  dare  to  love  ;  and  then  thine  eyes 

Peered  up  through  their  dark  lashes,  with  a  look 

So  tender,  yet  so  melancholy,  and 

Thy  lips  parted  with  a  sigh  —  and  then  — 

And  then  — 


Do  dreams  always  prove  true,  lanthe  ? 


2V 


246                                "SVILLIAM    G.    CROSHY. 

THE  LAST  LEAF. 

Lone  trcm'bling  one  ! 

Last  of  a  summer  race,  withered  and  sear, 

And  shivering  —  wherefore  art  thou  lingering  here? 

Thy  v/ork  is  done. 

Thou  hast  seen  all 

The  summer  flowers  reposing  in  their  tomb,                        '^ 

And  the  green  leaves,  that  knew  thee  in  their  bloom, 

Wither  and  fall ! 

The  voice  of  Spring, 

Which  called  thee  into  being,  ne'er  again 

Will  greet  thee  —  nor  the  gentle  Summer  rain 

New  verdure  bring. 

The  Zephyr's  breath 

No  more  will  wake  for  thee  its  melody  — 

But  the  lone  sighing  of  the  blast  shall  be 

Thy  hymn  of  death. 

Yet  a  few  days, 

A  few  faint  struggles  with  the  Autumn  storm, 

And  the  strained  eye,  to  catch  thy  quivering  form, 

In  vain  may  gaze. 

WILLIAM    G.    CROSBY.  247 


Pale  Autumn  leaf ! 
Thou  art  an  emblem  of  mortality. 
The  broken  heart,  once  young  and  fresh  like  thee, 

Withered  by  grief, — 

Whose  leaves  are  fled, 
"Wliose  loved  ones  all  have  drooped  and  died  away, 
Still  clings  to  life  —  and  lingering,  loves  to  stay 

Above  the  dead ! 

But  list  — even  now 
I  hear  the  gathering  of  the  wintry  blast ; 
It  comes  —  thy  frail  form  trembles  —  it  is  past ! 

And  so  art  thou. 


248  "VVILLIAM    G.    CROSBY. 


TO  A  LADY, 

WITH    A    AVI  THE  RED    LEAF. 

What  offering  can  the  minstrel  bring, 
To  cast  upon  affection's  shrine  ? 

'Twas  hard  thy  magic  spells  to  fling 
O'er  the  fond  heart  already  thine  ! 

Thou  wouldst  not  prize  the  glittering  gem, 
Thou  wouldst  but  cast  the  pearl  away  ; 

For  thine  is  now  a  diadem, 

Of  lustre  brighter  far  than  they. 

I  will  not  bring  the  spring-tide  flower. 

Reposing  on  its  gentle  leaf; 
Its  memory  lives  but  for  an  hour  — 

I  would  not  tliine  should  be  as  brief. 

My  heart  !  —  but  that  has  long  been  thine  - 
'Twere  but  a  worthless  offering  ; 

The  ruin  of  a  rifled  shrine, 

A  flower  that  fast  is  withering. 


WILLIAM    G.    CKOSBY.  249 


My  song  ! —  'tis  but  a  mournful  strain, 

So  deep  in  sorrow's  mantle  clad, 
E'en  echo  will  not  wake  again 

The  music  of  a  strain  so  sad. 

A  withered  leaf!  —  nay,  scorn  it  not, 

Nor  deem  it  all  unworthy  thee  ; 
It  grew  upon  a  hallow'd  spot, 

And  sacred  is  its  memory. 

I  pluck'd  it  from  a  lonely  bough, 

That  hung  above  my  moihers  grave. 

And  felt,  e'en  then,  that  none  but  thou 
Could'st  prize  the  gift  affection  gave. 

She  faded  with  the  flowers  of  spring, 
That  o'er  her  lifeless  form  was  cast,  — 

And  when  I  pluck'd  this  faded  thing, 
'Twas  shivering  in  the  autumn  blast. 

'Twas  the  last  one  !  —  all  —  all  were  gone, 
They  bloom'd  not  where  the  yew  trees  v/ave ; 

This  leaf  and  I  were  left  alone. 

Pale  watchers  o'er  my  mother's  grave. 

I  mark'd  it,  w^hen  full  oft  I  sought 

That  spot  so  dear  to  memory ; 
I  loved  it  —  for  I  fondly  thought, 

It  linger'd  there  to  mourn  with  me ! 


250  WILLIAM   G.    CROSBY. 


I've  moisten'd  it  with,  many  a  tear, 
I've  liallow'd  it  with  many  a  prayer  : 

And  while  this  bursting  heart  was  clear 
From  guilt's  dark  stain,  I  shrined  it  there. 

Now,  lady,  now  the  gift  is  thine  ! 

Oh,  guard  it  with  a  vestal's  care ; 
Make  but  thine  angel  heart  its  shrine, 

And  I  will  kneel  and  worship  there  ! 


STANZAS. 

TO  ONE  WTIO   SENT    ME  A  WITHEUED  LEAF. 

Tal<e  back  your  leaf  again  — 
Why  make  the  tear- drop  start; 

Why  plant  this  weary  pain 
Like  dag;;ers  in  my  heart? 

Take  back  your  leaf  again, — 

Why  drain  my  drop  of  bliss; 
Wliy  madden  up  my  brain 

With  such  a  type  as  tliis? 

I  knew  our  joys  had  fled, 

I  knew  your  faith  was  brief; 
I  knew  my  love  was  dead,  — 

Dead  like  this  withered  leaf. 


DAVID  BARKER. 

AGE,  37  YEARS. 

D.wnD  Bakker,  Esq.,  was  born  in  the  tovra.  of  Exeter,  on  the 
nmth  day  of  September,  1846.  He  commenced  life  a  poor  boy,  -with 
only  such  advantages  for  an  education  as  were  afforded  by  small  coun- 
try toAvns,  at  that  time,  in  their  public  schools,  yet  with  the  same  in- 
domitable and  praiseworthy  self-exertion  and  perseverance  that  have 
marked  his  later  years,  he  devoted  liimself  to  a  course  of  self-educa- 
tion, and  by  a  thorough  and  arduous  research,  acquu-ed  what  was  then 
considered  a  superior  education.  Slowly,  but  surely,  he  worked  his  way 
along  —  learnuig  a  little  liere,  and  earning  a  little  there  —  until  he 
became  a  law  student  in  the  office  of  the  Hon.  Samuel  Cony,  who 
was  then  in  practice  at  Exeter,  Mr.  Barker  pursued  the  study 
of  law  until  his  course  was  finished,  and  then,  m  order  to  be  able  to 
commence  the  practice  of  it,  taught  school  for  a  few  years,  by  which 
occupation  he  acquii'ed  means  enough  to  open  an  office  in  liis  native 
town,  which  he  did  in  1844,  and  has  since 'remained  there,  practicing 
as  much  as  his  health  would  admit.  Many  of  his  poems  are  but  a  true 
index  to  the  character  of  their  author,  and  come  from  his  heart, 
spontaneously,  lUvC  the  gushing  forth  of  water  from  a  spring ;  among 
these  are  '  Try  Again,'  '  Solace  for  Dark  Hom-s,'  and  '  Moke  Your 
Mark  ; '  which  possess  true  every-day-life  poetry,  and  find  an  echo  in 
every  enterprising  breast. 

JMr.  Barker  is  a  man  of  feeble  health,  although  Aigorous  in  mind, 
and  one  whose  life  has  been  full  of  bodily  suffering,  wliich  has  pre- 
vented him  from  engaging  extensively  in  active  business  life.  This, 
vith  the  hardships  and  trials  through  which  he  has  fought  his  v>ay  up 
the  rugged  path  of  life,  reflect  the  liighest  credit  upon  liis  talent, 
energy,  and  indomitable  perseverance,  wh  ich  have  been  fostered  by  no 
encouraging  influence  or  wealth,  but  by  hard  struggling  and  poverty. 
22 


254  DAVID    BARKER, 


TRY  AGAIN. 

Should  your  cherisli'd  purpose  fail, 
Never  falter,  swerve,  nor  quail ; 
Nerve  the  arm  and  raise  the  hand. 
Fling  the  outer  garments  by, 
"With  a  dauntless  courage  stand, 
Shouting  forth  the  battle  cry  ! 

Try  again ! 
Is  your  spirit  bowed  by  grief. 
Rally  quick,  for  life  is  brief; 
Every  saint  in  yonder  sphere. 
Borne  through  tribulation  here, 
Whispers  in  the  anxious  ear 
Of  each  mortal  in  despair. 

Try  again  ! 
What  though  stricken  to  the  earth. 
Up,  man,  as  from  a  second  birth ; 
Yonder  flower  beneath  the  tread, 
Struggling  when  the  foot  has  gone, 
Rising  feebly  in  its  bed. 
Tells  the  hopeless  looker-on, 

Try  again  ! 
Guided  by  the  hand  of  Right, 
With  Hope's  taper  for  a  light. 
With  a  destiny  like  ours, 
And  that  destiny  to  choose  ; 
With  such  God-created  powers, 
And  a  heaven  to  gain  or  lose. 

Try  again. 


DAVID    BARKER.  255 


A  SOLACE  FOR  DARK  HOURS. 

A  FUELING  rill  —  so  small  and  weak  — 

Once  nearly  died  upon  its  way, 
While  running  round  the  sea  to  seek, 

Upon  a  summer's  day. 
But  soon  a  cloud  hung  o'-er  that  rill, 

And  soon  came  down  an  autumn  rain, 
When  quick  it  danced  by  vale  and  hill 

Restored  to  strength  again. 

So  pilgrim,  though  your  sky  should  lower, 

Though  sorrow's  storms  should  come  at  length. 
Yet  God  may  clothe  that  storm  with  power 

To  give  you  strength. 
It  is  not  best  that  all  should  live 

'Mid  peaceful  gales — 'neath  sunnj  skies, 
For  cloud  and  tempest  often  give 

Rich  blessings  in  disguise. 

The  seaman's  bark,  whose  bellied  sail 

The  storm  has  drenched  and  wind  has  fill'd. 
To  reach  its  destined  port  might  fail 

If  storm  and  wind  were  still'd. 
And  thus  our  barks  may  quicker  find. 

Though  long  of  angry  waves  the  sport, 
Though  dashed  ahead  by  storm  and  wind, 

A  final,  peaceful  port. 


256  DAMD    BAEKER. 


The  smouldering  coals  that  underneath 

Some  cumbrous  pile  have  calmly  lain, 
Might  fire  the  world  if  fanned  by  breath 

Of  passing  hurricane. 
And  brother,  now  perhaps  thou  hast, 

Deep  buried  'neath  plebeian  name, 
A  fire,  which,  touched  by  sorrow's  blast. 

May  kindle  into  flame. 

The  rust  that  creeps  o'er  warrior's  blade. 

When  peace  can  sleep  without  alarms, 
Is  seen  no  more  when  shout  is  made, 

'  To  arms  !  the  foe  !  to  arms  ! ' 
And  thus  a  readiness  for  strife, 

For  action  in  this  world  of  fight, 
May  both  protect  the  spirit's  life, 

And  keep  its  weapons  bright. 

Fear  not  the  man  of  wealth  and  birth, 

Securely  resting  in  his  seat. 
But  sooner  him,  -who,  dashed  to  earth, 

Is  rising  to  his  feet. 
From  straightened  bow  the  arrow'd  spear 

By  warrior's  arm  is  never  sent, 
The  danger  which  you  have  to  fear 

Comes  when  that  bow  is  bent. 


Millinm  €iiUn\ 


22* 


THE  ONE  TALENT. 

*  TO  EVERY  MAN  ACCORDING  TO  HIS  SEVERAL  ABILITY.' 

Hide  not  thy  talent  in  the  earth  ;  — 

However  small  it  be, 
Its  faithful  use,  its  utmost  worth, 

God  will  require  of  thee. 

The  humblest  service  rendered  here 

He  will  as  truly  own, 
As  Paul's,  in  his  exalted  sphere, 

Or  Gabriel's,  near  the  throne. 

The  cup  of  water  kindly  given, 

The  widow's  cheerful  mites. 
Are  worthier,  in  the  eye  of  heaven, 

Thau  pride's  most  costly  rites. 

His  own,  which  He  hath  lent  on  trust, 

He  asks  ol  thee  again ; 
Little  or  much,  the  claim  is  just, 

And  thine  excuses  vain. 

Go  then,  and  strive  to  do  thy  part  — 

Though  humble  it  may  be. 
The  ready  hand,  the  willing  heart, 

Are  all  heaven  asks  of  thee. 


WILLIAM    CUTTER. 

AGE,  52  YEARS. 

William  Cutter  is  a  son  of  the  Hon.  Le^i  Cutter,  of  Portland, 
and  a  native  of  the  to\vn  of  North  Yarmouth,  although  his  early  years 
were  spent  in  the  city  of  Portland,  where  his  parents  removed  while 
he  was  quite  young.  He  was  born  some  time  during  the  year  of  1802. 
He  graduated  from  Bowdoin  College,  and  for  a  short  time  studied  The- 
ology at  the  Andover  Theological  Seminary,  but  owing  to  ill  health 
relinquished  it,  and,  returning  to  Portland,  engaged  in  mercantile 
pursuits.  While  here  he  contributed  largely  to  many  of  the  leading 
magazines  in  Boston,  New  York,  and  Pliiladelphia,  also  to  the  '  Port- 
land Tribune,'  a  Hterary  weekly,  and  at  that  time  became  very  widely 
kno\ni  as  a  periochcal  writer.  Several  of  his  articles  appeared  in  the 
'Token,' a  Boston  Annual,  'The  Legendary,'  the  '  Bowdoin  Poets,' 
and  '  Portland  Sketch  Book.'  In  1846,  he  published  a  life  of  Putnam, 
and  three  years  after,  a  life  of  Lafayette,  both  of  wliich  have  recently 
been  issued  in  splendid  style  by  a  New  York  pubhshing  house.  For 
the  past  ten  years  Mr.  Cutter  has  been  engaged  in  mercantile  pursuits 
in  New  York,  and  devotes  himself  less  frequently  than  in  former  years 
to  Hterary  matters.  He  is  the  author  of  those  lines  so  often  quoted, 
and  so  fuU  of  truth  and  wisdom. 

Wliat  if  the  little  rain  should  say, 

'  So  small  a  drop  as  I 
Can  ne'er  refresh  the  thirsty  earth, 

I'll  tarry  in  the  sky.' 

What  if  a  shininq;  beam  of  noou 

Should  in  its  fountain  stay, 
Because  its  feible  lijtht  alone 
Is  not  enough  for  day  ! 

Doth  not  each  rain-drop  help  to  form 

The  cool  refreshing  shower? 
And  every  rav  of  lisht  to  warm 

And  beiiulify  the  flower? 


260  WILLIAM    CUTTER. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SILENCE. 

It  was  a  perfect  Eden  for  beauty.  The  scent  of  flowers  came  up  on  the  gale, 
the  swift  stream  sparkled  like  a  flow  of  diamonds  in  the  sun,  and  a  smile  of  soft 
light  glistened  on  every  leaf  and  blade,  as  they  drank  in  the  life-giving  ray. 
Its  significant  loveliness  was  eloquent  to  the  eye,  and  the  heart;  but  a  strange 
deep  silence  reigned  over  it  all.  So  perfect  was  the  unearthly  hush,  you 
could  almost  hear  yourself  think.  Katahdin. 

Has  thy  foot  ever  trod  that  silent  dell  ?  — 
'Tis  a  place  for  the  voiceless  thought  to  swell, 
And  the  eloquent  song  to  go  up  unspoken, 
Like  the  incense  of  flowers  whose  urns  are  broken ; 
And  the  unveiled  heart  may  look  in  and  see, 
In  that  deep,  strange  silence,  its  motions  free, 
And  learn  how  the  pure  in  spirit  feel 
That  unseen  Presence  to  which  they  kneel. 

No  sound  goes  up  from  the  quivering  trees, 

When  they  spread  their  arms  to  the  welcome  breeze. 

They  wave  in  the  zephyr,  they  bow  to  the  blast, 

But  they  breathed  not  a  word  of  the  power  that  pass'd ; 

And  their  leaves  come  down  on  the  turf  and  the  stream, 

With  as  noiseless  a  fall  as  the  step  of  a  dream ; 

And  the  breath  that  is  bending  the  grass  and  the  flowers. 

Moves  o'er  them  as  lightly  as  evening  hours. 


WILLIAM    CUTTER.  261 

The  merry  bird  lights  down  on  that  dell, 

And  hushing  his  breath,  lest  the  song  should  swell, 

Sits  with  folded  wing,  in  the  balmy  shade, 

Like  a  musical  thought  in  the  soul  unsaid  ; 

And  they  of  strong  pinion  and  lofter  flight 

Pass  over  that  valley,  like  clouds  in  the  night  — 

They  move  not  a  wing  in  that  solemn  sky, 

But  sail  in  a  reverent  silence  by. 

The  deer  in  his  flight  has  passed  that  way, 

And  felt  the  deep  spell's  mysterious  sway  — 

He  hears  not  the  rush  of  the  path  he  cleaves. 

Nor  his  bounding  step  on  the  trampled  leaves. 

The  hare  goes  up  on  that  sunny  hill  — 

And  the  footsteps  of  morning  are  not  more  still. 

And  the  wild,  and  the  fierce,  and  the  mighty  are  there  — 

Unheard  in  the  hush  of  that  slumbering  air. 

The  stream  rolls  down  in  that  valley  serene, 
Content  in  its  beautiful  flow  to  be  seen  ; 
And  its  fresh,  flowry  banks  and  its  pebbly  bed 
Were  never  yet  told  of  its  fountain-head. 
And  it  still  rushes  on  —  but  they  ask  not  why ; 
With  its  smiles  of  light  it  is  hurrying  by ; 
Still  gliding  or  leaping,  unwhispered,  unsung, 
Like  the  flow  of  bright  fancies  it  flashes  along. 

The  wind  sweeps  by,  and  the  leaves  are  stirred^ 
But  never  a  whisper  or  sigh  is  heard ; 
And  when  its  strong  rush  laid  low  the  oak. 
Not  a  murmur  the  eloquent  stillness  broke  ; 


262  WILLIAM    CUTTER. 


And  the  gay  young  echoes,  those  mockers  that  lie 
In  the  dark  mountain  sides,  make  no  reply  ; 
But  hushed  in  their  caves,  they  are  listening  still 
For  the  songs  of  that  valley  to  burst  o'er  the  hill. 


I  love  society  ;  I  am  o'erblest  to  hear 

The  mingling  voices  of  a  world  ;  mine  ear 

Drinks  in  their  music  with  a  spiritual  taste ; 

I  love  companionship  on  life's  gray  waste, 

And  might  not  live  unheard ;  —  yet  that  still  vale  • 

It  had  no  fearful  mystery  in  its  tale  — 

Its  hush  was  grand,  not  awful  —  as  if  there 

The  voice  of  nature  were  a  breathing  prayer. 

'Twas  like  a  holy  temple,  where  the  pure 

Might  join  in  their  hushed  worship,  and  be  sure 

No  sound  of  earth  could  come  —  a  soul  kept  still, 

In  faith's  unanswering  meekness,  for  Heaven's  will  ■ 

Its  eloqiient  thoughts  sent  upward  and  abroad, 

But  all  its  deep,  hushed  voices  kept  for  God  ! 


WILLIAM    CUTTER.  263 


WHO  IS  MY  NEIGHBOR? 

Thy  neighbor  ?     It  is  lie  whom  thou 
Hast  power  to  aid  and  bless  — 

Whose  aching  heart  and  burning  brow 
Thy  soothing  hand  may  press. 

Thy  neighbor  ?     'Tis  the  fainting  poor, 
Whose  eye  with  want  is  dim  — 

Whom  hunaier  sends  from  door  to  door- 
Go  thou  and  succor  him. 

Thy  neighbor  ?     'Tis  that  weary  man, 
Whose  years  are  at  their  brim  — 

Bent  low  with  sickness,  care  and  pain  — 
Go  thou  and  comfort  him. 

Thy  neighbor  ?     'Tis  the  heart  bereft 

Of  every  earthly  gem  ; 
Widow  and  orphan  helpless  left  — 

Go  thou  and  shelter  them. 

Thy  neighbor  ?     Yonder  toiling  slave, 
Fettered  in  thought  and  limb  — 

Whose  hopes  arc  all  beyond  the  grave  - 
Go  thou  and  ransom  him. 


264  WILLIAM    CUTTEK. 


^Vllcrc'cr  thou  mcct'st  a  human  form 
Less  favored  than  thy  own, 

Rememher  'tis  thy  neighbor  worm, 
Thy  brother  or  thy  son. 

Oh,  pass  not,  pass  not  heedless  by, 
Perhaps  thou  canst  redeem 

The  breaking  heart  from  misery  — 
Go,  share  thy  lot  with  him. 


THE  BRIDAL. 

If  health  be  firm  —  if  friends  be  true  — 
If  self  be  well  controlled  — 

If  tastes  be  pure  —  if  wants  be  few, 
And  not  too  often  told,  — 

If  reason  always  rule  the  heart. 
And  passion  own  its  sway  — 

If  love,  for  aye,  to  life  impart 
The  zest  it  gives  to-day, — 

If  Providence,  with  parent  care, 

Mete  out  the  varying  lot, 
While  meek  contentment  bows  to  share 

The  palace  or  the  cot,  — 

And  ah  !  if  Faith  sublime  and  clear. 

The  spirit  upward  guide  — 
Then  blest  indeed,  and  blest  fore'er, 

The  Bridegroom  and  the  Bride  ! 


FATHER  RALLE'S    SOLILOQUY 

AN  EXTRACT  FROM  CARABASSET. 

Poor  children  of  the  forest  1  thanks  to  Heaven, 
Here  ye  can  rest  your  weary  limbs  at  last, 
Kor  fear  surprise.    May  all  be  calm  within  — 
Calm  as  the  noble  stream  that  sweeps  around 
Your  humble  liabitations.     Oil!  how  still 
And  solemn  is  the  hour.    So  lightly  falls 
The  foosfep  on  this  moss,  'twould  scarce  be  heard. 
Were  it  not  strewn  with  Autumn's  dying  leaves: 
Fit  emblems  of  our  fate!  a  moment  fair, 
And  fresh,  and  fragrant,  and  then  — low  in  dust. 
Hark!  'tis  the  howling  of  the  famished  wolf 
.'^uuflTing  the  track  of  some  tall  antler'd  moose, 
As  he  goes  down  to  bathe  him  in  the  waters; 
He's  ever  on  the  watch,  nor  tires  of  blood, 
And  so  is  man,  when  left  unto  himself, 
Unciviliz'd,  with  passions  uncontrolled, 
Knowing  no  law  but  arbitrary  will, 
And  render'd  desperate  by  persecution. 


NATHANIEL    13EERING. 

This  gentleman  is  a  native  of  Portland,  where  he  has  resided 
the  larger  jjortion  of  his  life,  and  a  son  of  the  late  James  Deering, 
Esq.,  Avho  was  one  of  the  wealthiest  and  most  influential  of  its  citi- 
zens. He  was  educated  at  Harvard  University,  and  like  men  of  wealth 
at  that  period,  devoted  himself  to  literary  pursuits  merely  as  a  source 
of  recreation  and  cultivation  of  the  mind.  Although  but  Httle  known 
at  the  present  time  as  a  literary  character,  he  formerly  occupied  a  high 
position  among  the  '  Portland  Writers'  m  the  '  good  old  days'  of  Neal, 
Davies,  Cutter,  jNIellen,  Beckett,  Colesworthy  and  others,  who  figured 
quite  prominently  before  the  reading  public.  The  longest  of  Mr. 
Deering's  poetical  productions,  is,  we  believe,  a  dramatic  poem  of  fifty 
pages,  entitled  '  Carabasset ;  a  Tragedy  in  Five  Acts,'  which  was 
pubUshed  in  1830.  This  poem  is  founded  upon  events  connected  Mith 
the  visit  of  the  Enghsh  to  Norridgewok,  in  1724,  and  the  death  of 
Father  Ealle,  a  French  Priest,  whose  history  is  well  known  to  the 
citizens  of  our  State.  It  contains  many  passages  of  more  than  ordinary 
merit,  and  taken  as  a  whole  does  credit  to  the  talent  of  its  author. 
Throughout  the  entire  poem  the  reader  tliscovers  a  carefid  finish,  a 
purity  of  thought  and  expression,  which  make  it  more  readable  and 
place  it  on  a  higher  scale  as  a  literary  composition.  In  the  closing 
scene,  where  Carabasset,  the  Chief  of  the  Norridgewoks  —  mIio  are 
supposed  to  be  all  killed  in  the  engagement  —  rather  than  be  taken 
prisoner,  thus  vaUantly  defies  then-  power,  and  then  leaps  into  the 
cataract  below. 

Advance,  and  I  will  hurl  ye  from  this  cliff 
Into  the  gulph  that  yawns  beneath.    Behold 
The  last  of  all  the  Is  orridsrewoks — a  race 


2G8  NATHANIEL   DEEKING. 


Who  die  in  battle.    Cowards,  do  ye  think 
That  Carabassct,  he  wlio  led  them  on, 
In  many  a  bloody  conflict,  would  submit 
To  the  vile  cords  that  ye  would  bind  him  with? 
Return,  return  and  tell  your  masters  this  — 
Tell  them  he  scorned  to  be  the  sport  of  slaves  ; 
Of  those  whom  he  had  trampled  on  —  of  those 
Whom  he  had  dragged  as  captives  —  ay,  of  those 
Whose  lips  do  quiver  when  they  mention  him. 
Go,  tell  them  this. 

Tell  them  that  thus  a  Norridgewok  hath  liv'd. 
And  thus  —  can  die. 

Since  the  publication  of  this  tragedy  we  believe  Mr.  Deering  has 
issued  another  poem  of  nearly  the  same  length,  but  of  what  character 
■we  do  not  know,  as  it  is  long  since  out  of  print.  His  fugitive  poems, 
contributed  to  the  '  Lady's  Book',  '  Portland  Tribune,'  and  other 
magazines  and  journals,  were  characterized,  like  his  longer  ones,  by  the 
same  careful  finish,  and  freedom  fi"om  the  overstrained  expression 
which  destroys  the  beauty  of  so  much  of  our  otherwise  exalted  poe- 
try. He  wrote  some  years  ago  a  parody  on  Longfellow's  '  Wreck  of 
the  Hesperus,'  which  was  somewhat  popular,  although  a  kind  of  poetry 
not  calculated  to  add  much  to  an  author's  true  merit. 


NATHANIEL   DEEKING.  269 


THE  GRAVE. 

Mark  tliis  lowly  mound 

Where  the  rank  weeds  wave  ; 
Mortal,  thou  art  bound 

Hither  —  'tis  the  grave  ! 
Though  no  sculptured  stone 

Now  the  tale  reveals  ; 
Yet,  a  spirit  tone 

From  beneath  it  steals. 

Listen  !  it  declares 

'  Here  the  weary  rest ;  ' 
That  its  tenant  fares 

As  a  bidden  guest. 
As  a  guest  assured 

Of  a  welcome  there  ; 
Free  from  toils  endured  — 

Sorrow,  want  and  care. 

Where  the  wanderer  knows 

That  his  goal  is  won  ; 
Where  he  can  repose 

Now  his  task  is  done. 


23* 


210  NATHANIEL   DEERING. 

Where  the  broken  heart 
Checks  its  bitter  moan  ; 

Where  affliction's  smart 
Ceases  —  and  is  gone. 

Where  the  slave  is  free ! 

Where  the  galling  chain 
And  the  lash  will  be 

Heeded  not  again. 
Where  vice  fails  to  wrong, 

And  its  reign  is  o'er  : 
Where  friends,  parted  long. 

Meet,  to  part  no  more. 

Welcome,  peaceful  bed ! 

When  our  lamps  expire. 
Though  no  tear  be  shed, 

Though  no  tuneful  choir 
Chant  in  mournful  strains 

While  round  our  bier  ; 
Yet  a  rest  remains 

Long  denied  us  here. 


NATHANIEL   DEERING.  271 


THE  HARP. 

Oh,  leave  the  Harp,  in  pity  leave! 

To  none  it  yields  its  thrilling  tone. 
Since  she  who  woke  its  note  at  eve, 

Reposes  'neath  the  dark  grey  stone. 

A  seraph's  voice  was  hers  who  hung 
So  fondly  o'er  the  trembling  string, 

And  mournful  was  the  strain  she  sung. 
That  oft  the  silent  tear  would  bringr 


o* 


For  sad  the  story  of  her  woes  — 

The  child  of  sorrow  from  her  birth  — 

Nor  wonder  at  the  song  she  chose  — 
A  requiem  to  departed  worth. 

Yet  from  those  lips  no  murmur  came  ; 

'Twas  praise  to  that  all  gracious  Power, 
Whose  arm  upheld  her  wasted  frame, 

And  guarded  in  the  adverse  hour. 

That  voice  is  hushed  —  yet  in  the  glade. 
When  the  soft  night-wind  passes  by, 

That  Harp,  as  if  by  spirits  played, 
Will  breathe  its  sweetest  melody. 


272  NATHANIEL   DEERING. 

As  if  the  one  to  memory  dear 

Had  left  awhile  the  world  of  bliss. 

And  touched  the  magic  chords  to  cheer 
The  hearts  of  those  she  knew  in  this. 

Then  let  the  Harp  in  silence  rest, 

No  hand  can  wake  its  thrilling  tone. 

Since  she  who  loved  its  music  best, 
Reposes  'neath  the  dark  grey  stone. 


i'jirioHs   |^iit|0rs. 


274 


SYLVESTER    B.    BECKETT. 


SYLVESTER  B.   BECKETT. 

Sylvksteii  B.  Eeckett  is  a  native  of  Portland,  in  which  City 
he  was  born  (lurinj;- tlie  month  of  May,  1S12.  At  an  early  age  he 
hecamp  an  ajiprcntice  to  the  printino-  business  in  the  office  of  the 
Christian  Mirror,  a  -weekly  ])a])cr,  ])nblished  in  that  City,  and  devoted 
to  Kelig'ion.  After  serving  his  a])prcnticeship  he  remained  as  a  com- 
])ositt)r  in  tlie  office,  and  having  been  endowed  by  nature  with  pro- 
mising native  talent,  devoted  his  spare  moments  to  literary  matters, 
contributing  to  various  journals  and  magazines.  He  was  for  some 
time  connected  Mith  his'friend  Colesworthy,as  editor  of  the  'Portland 
Tribune,'  after  that  gentleman  had  dis])oscd  of  his  interest  in  it  as 
publisher.  Subsequent  to  this  Mr.  Beckett  had  been  a  regidar 
contributor  to  its  columns.     He  still  resides  in  his  native  City. 


0,  LADY !  SING  THAT  SONG  AGAIN ! 

O.  Lady !  siiij;  tlmt  song  again  ; 

Sweet  visions  ol'tlie  past 
Are  wakened  at  the  plaintive  strain  — 

Sing  on  and  bid  them  last! 
Thou  hast  the  voice  of  one  who  sleeps 

Iieno;ith  the  willow  tree, 
Who  oft  in  by  ^one  happy  hours, 

llutli  tuned  tliose  notes  fur  me. 

'J'hey  bring  to  mind  the  home  of  youth, 

Ueneath  the  old  oak's  shade, 
Kach  breezy  slope,  each  rock  and  tree, 

Each  darksome  forest-glade; 
And  forms  familiar  rise  to  view, 

To  whom  my  heart  would  cling, 
All  clothed  with  beauty,  gladness,  youtli, 
Sing  on,  kind  lady,  suigl 

Sad  was  the  day  when  I  went  forth  — 

And  death  came  in  my  stead, 
And  they  are  scattered  through  the  world, 

Or  in  their  '  na)row  bed  ;' 
But  as  I  listen  to  thy  voice, 

In  fancy  blest  1  roam, 
Amidst  the  green  and  peaceful  scenes 

Of  my  forsaken  liomel 


Owing  to  an  unfortunate  accident,  Avhich  occurred  at  this  portion 
of  our  work,  Ave  are  ol^liged  to  curtail  our  selections  from  these 
authors,  wliich  we  regret  exceedingly.  —  Editor. 


CHARLES    P.    ROBERTS.  275 


CHARLES   PHELPS   ROBERTS. 

Charles  P.  Roberts  Is  a  native  of  the  City  of  Bangor,  where 
he  was  born  on  the  fourteenth  day  of  February,  1822.  llis  father 
removed  to  Bangor  in  early  youth,  and  is  now  one  of  its  oldest  citizens. 
The  subject  of  this  sketch  received  his  early  education  at  the  Bangor 
High  School,  ii-om  which  he  entered  Bowdom  College,  and  Avas  grad- 
uated in  the  Class  of  184.5.  After  this  he  studied  law' for  some  time 
in  the  office  of  James  S.  Rowe,  Esq.,  a  member  of  the  Penobscot  Bar, 
and  U.  S.  Commissioner  for  Bangor.  Mr.  Roberts  was  admitted  to 
practice  in  1847,  but  becoming  connected  mth  the  editorial  depart- 
ment of  the  Bangor  Daily  Mercury,  he  rehnqiiished  it,  and  for  ibm- 
years  devoted  his  time  and  talent  to  editorial  matters.  He  is  now 
one  of  the  echtors  of  the  Bangor  Daily  Journal,  a  new  daily  paper 
recently  started  in  that  City. 


THE   SLEEP   OE   NATURE. 

As  an  earthquake  rocks  a  corse, 

In  its  cottin  in  the  clay 
So  white  Winter,  that  rough  nurse, 

Rocks  tlie  death-cold  year  to-day. 

SUELLET. 

She  is  not  dead,  but  sleepeth. 

Scripture. 


The  wind  is  loud,  and  a  frosty  shroud 

Wraps  Nature  in  its  fold, 
The  Frost  King's  hands,  as  with  iron  bands, 

Have  set  and  sealed  their  hold. 

How  swift  and  fleet  were  the  Day-God's  feet, 

That  danced  along  the  plain  ! 
And  sudden  and  brief  the  fall  of  the  leaf, 

Told  Winter  come  again  ! 


276  C1IAKLE3    P.    ROBERTS. 


As  sweet  and  deep  as  a  maiden's  sleep, 

In  snow-white  vesture  laid, 
Looks  Nature  now,  with  her  pale  cold  brow. 

In  her  wintry  garb  array'd. 

Yet  fair  as  the  flush  of  a  virgin's  blush. 
Shall  she  rise  from  sleep  and  dream. 
And  roseate  hues  with  the  glittering  dews, 
■  Shall  weave  her  gorgeous  sheen. 

And  again  shall  sing  the  birds  in  the  Spring, 

And  Nature's  heart  shall  glow; 
The  fruits  and  flowers,  in  the  genial  showers, 

Shall  blossom  sweet  and  grow. 

On  hill-side  and  plain  shall  nod  the  ripe  grain, 

In  Summer's  golden  sun. 
And  Autumn  shall  cheer  with  the  fruits  of  the  year, 

The  reapers'  work  well  done. 

Thus  warm  or  a-cold,  she  waxeth  not  old, 

Since  the  sweet  morn  of  her  birth. 
When  the  glad  stars  sang  and  the  echoes  rang, 

Through  all  the  heaven  and  earth. 


B.    A.    G.    FULLER.  277 


BENJAMIN   A.  G.   FULLEE. 


B.  A.  G.  Fuller,  Esq.,  is  a  native  of  Augusta,  where  he  ^ras 
born  on  the  twenty-third  of  May,  1818,  and  is  a  son  of  the  late 
Judge  Fuller,  of  that  city.  He  was  educated  at  Bowdoin  College, 
from  which  he  graduated  in  1839.  During  the  ])rcvious  year  he 
dehvercd  a  poem  before  the  Athcnean  Society  of  the  College.  On 
graduating,  he  stuched  law  in  his  father's  office,  and  also  at  the 
Harvard  Law  School,  Cambridge,  Miss.  In  1841,  he  was  admitted 
to  the  Kennebec  B.ir,  and  entered  to  practice  in  his  native  city,  where 
he  has  since  remiiued.  For  the  past  four  years  he  has  been  Judge 
of  the  Municipal  Court  of  Augusta. 


FAITH,   HOPE,    CHARITY. 

'  A?id  noio  ahideth  Faith,  Hope,  Charity,  these  three  :  but  the  greatest  of 

these  is  Charity.' 

Have  Kope  !  — it  is  the  brightest  star 

That  lights  life's  pathway  down  : 
A  richer,  purer  gem  than  decks 

An  Eastern  Monarch's  crown. 
The  Midas  that  may  turn  to  joy 

The  grief-fount  of  the  soul ; 
That  points  the  prize,  and  bids  thee  press 

With  fervor  to  the  goal. 

Have  Hope  !  —  as  the  toss'd  mariner 

Upon  the  wild  wave  driven, 
With  rapture  hails  the  Polar  star, 

His  guiding  light  to  haven,  — 
So  Hope  shall  gladden  thee,  and  guide 

Along  life's  stormy  road, 

And,  as  a  sacred  beacon,  stand 

To  point  thee  to  thy  God. 
24 


278  B.    A.    G.    FULLER. 


Have  Faith  !  —  the  substance  of  things  hoped, 

Of  things  not  seen,  the  sign  ; 
That  nerves  the  arm  with  God-like  might,  — 

The  soul  with  strength  divine. 
Have  Faith  !  —  her  rapid  foot  shall  bring 

Thee  conquering  to  the  goal, 
Her  glowing  hand  with  honors  wreathe 

A  chaplet  for  thy  soul. 

Have  Faith  I  —  and  though  around  thy  bark 

The  tempest  surges  roar  ; 
At  her  stern  voice  the  storm  shall  rest, 

The  billows  rage  no  more. 
Hope  bids  the  soul  to  soar  on  high, 

And  yet  no  wing  supplies ; 
She  marks  the  way  —  but  Faith  shall  bear 

The  spirit  to  the  skies. 

Have  Chakity  !  —  for  though  thou'st  faith 

To  make  the  hills  remove. 
Thou  nothing  art,  if  wanting  this,  — 

The  Charity  of  love. 
And  though  an  angel's  tongue  were  thine, 

Whose  voice  none  might  surpass, 
If  Charity  inspire  thee  not. 

Thou  art  as  sounding  brass  ! 

Have  Chahity  !  —  that  suffers  long. 

Is  kind  and  thinks  no  ill ; 
That  grieveth  for  a  brother's  fault. 

Yet  loves  that  brother  still. 
Faith,  Hope  and  Charity  !  —  of  these 

The  last  is  greatest,  best, 
'Tis  Heaven  itself  come  down  to  dwell 

Within  the  human  breast. 


"FLORENCE  PERCY." 

This  is  the  nojn  de  guerre  of  a  highly  gifted  lady,  whose  poems, 
contributed  to  the  '  Boston  Post,'  and  other  journals,  have  attracted 
much  attention.  She  was  born  in  the  rural  town  of  Strong,  Franklin 
Coimty,  on  the  ninth  day  of  August,  1832.  She  resided  there  dui-ing 
her  childhood,  and  amid  its  romantic  scenery,  and  the  quiet  of  its 
peaceful  tillage  life,  found 

'  An  eloquent  voice  in  all 
The  sylvan  pomp  of  woods,  tlie  golden  sun, 
The  flowers,  tlie  leaves,  the  river  on  its  way. 
Blue  skies,  and  silver  clouds,  and  gentle  winds,' 

and  learned  to  warble  forth  in  strains  of  sweet  poetic  melody  the 
lessons  which  they  taught  to  her  admiring  soul,  in  their  silent  voices. 


JUNE   SHOWER. 

How  this  delicious  rain 
Brings  up  tlie  flowers  !    One  might  almost  say 
It  rains  down  blossoms  —  for  where  yesterday 

I  sought  for  them  in  vain, 
They  lie  by  hundreds  on  the  wet  green  earth, 
Rejoicing  in  the  freshness  of  their  birth. 

With  idly  folded  hands 
The  farmer  sits  within  his  cottage  door, 
Watching  the  blessings  which  the  full  clouds  pour 

Upon  his  thirsty  lands  — 
Where  written  promise  by  his  eye  is  seen, 
In  visible  characters  of  living  green. 


280  FLORENCE    PERCY. 


Unyoked  the  oxen  stand, 
The  cool  rain  phishing  on  their  heaving  sides, 
And  with  wide  nostrils  breathe  the  fragrant  tides 

Of  breezes  flowing  bland  ; 
Then,  as  though  sated  with  the  odor  sweet, 
Crop  the  new  grass  that  springs  beneath  their  feet. 

Bloom-laden  lilac  trees, 
Their  purple  glories  dripping  with  the  rain, 
Shake  oif  the  drops  in  odorous  showers  again ; 

And  the  small  fragrances 
Of  cherry  blossoms,  and  of  violet  blue. 
Come  balmily  the  open  window  through. 

No  harsh  or  jarring  sound 
Breaks  the  refreshing  stillness  of  the  hour ; 
The  gentle  footfalls  of  the  passing  shower 

Patter  along  the  ground  — 
The  swallows  twitter  gladly  from  the  eaves, 
And  the  small  rain  talks  softly  to  the  leaves. 

Sweet  is  the  gushing  song 
Which  the  young  birds  sing  in  the  summer  time, 
The  wind's  soft  voice,  the  river's  wavy  chime, 

Flowing  in  joy  along. 
But  more  than  all  I  love  the  pleasant  tune 
Sung  by  the  rain-drops  in  the  month  of  June  ! 


EDWARD   M.    FIELD,  281 


EDV/ARD   MANN   FIELD. 

Dr.  Field  was  born  in  Belfast,  on  the  t-\venty-seventh  of  July, 
1822.  He  was  educated  at  Bowdoin  College,  in  the  class  of  1845, 
and  received  his  diploma  from  the  Jefierson  Medical  College,  Phila- 
delpHa,  in  1848,  having  subsequently  jjassed  two  years  in  the  Hos- 
pitals of  London  and  Paris.  In  1850,  he  commenced  the  practice  of 
his  profession  in  the  city  of  Bangor,  where  he  still  remains. 


MY   SISTER. 

I  REMEMBER  liow  I  loved  her, 

When  a  little  guiltless  child, 
I  saw  her  in  the  cradle 

As  she  look'd  on  me  and  smil'd. 
My  cup  of  happiness  was  full  — 

My  joy  words  cannot  tell ; 
And  I  blcss'd  the  glorious  Giver 

'  Who  doeth  all  things  well.' 


24* 


Months  pass'd  —  that  bud  of  promise 

Was  unfolding  every  hour  ; 
I  thought  that  earth  had  never  smiled 

Upon  a  fairer  flower. 
So  beautiful  it  Avell  might  grace 

The  bowers  where  angels  dwell, 
And  waft  its  fragrance  to  His  throne 

'  Who  doeth  all  things  well.' 

Years  fled  —  that  little  sister  then 

Was  dear  as  life  to  me, 
And  woke  in  my  unconscious  heart, 

A  wild  idolatry : 


:82  EDAVAUD    M.    FIELD. 


I  worshippM  at  an  earthly  shrine, 
Lured  by  some  magic  spell, 

Forgetful  of  the  praise  of  Him 
'  Who  doeth  all  things  well.' 


*o^ 


She  was  the  lovely  star,  whose  light 

Around  my  pathway  shone, 
Amid  the  darksome  vale  of  tears, 

Through  which  I  journied  on. 
Its  radiance  had  obscur'd  the  light, 

Which  round  His  throne  doth  dwell. 
And  I  wander'd  far  away  from  Him 

'  Who  docth  all  things  well.' 

That  star  went  down  in  beauty  — 

Yet  it  shineth  sweetly  now, 
In  the  light  and  dazzling  coronet, 

That  decks  the  Saviour's  brow. 
She  bow'd  to  the  Destroyer, 

Whose  shafts  none  may  repel. 
But  we  know,  for  God  has  told  us, 

'  He  doeth  all  things  well.' 

I  remember  well  my  sorrow, 

i\s  I  stood  beside  her  bed, 
And  my  deep  and  heartfelt  anguish, 

W^hcn  they  told  me  she  icas  dead. 
And  oh !  that  cup  of  bitterness  — 

Let  not  viy  heart  rebel, 
God  gave  —  He  took  —  He  will  restore  — 

'  He  doeth  all  things  well.' 


MELVILLE   AV.    FULLER.  283 


MELVILLE  WESTON  FULLER 


Melville  "VVeston  Fuller  Is  a  native  of  Augusta,  and  a  son  of 
the  late  Frederic  A.  Fuller,  Esq.,  who  -was  a  lawyer  of  that  City, 
lie  Mas  born  on  the  eleventh  day  of  February,  1833,  and  ^jassed  his 
early  years  in  his  native.city,  where  he  prepared  himself,  by  a  course 
of  seU-education,  for  Bowdoin  College,  and  at  the  age  of  sixteen  Avas 
admitted  as  a  Freshman.  He  graduated  in  1853,  with_  distinguished 
honor,  and  has  since  then  devoted  himself  more  particularly  to  the 
study  of  laM-,  in  the  office  of  George  jM.  Weston,  Esq.,  of  Bangor,  but 
at  the  present  time  is  a  member  of  the  Harvard  Law  School,  at  Cam- 
bridge. 


REMORSE. 

I  MAY  not  flee  it !  in  the  crowded  street, 

Or  in  the  solitude  by  all  forgot, 
'Tis  ever  there,  a  visitant  unmeet, 

Deep  in  my  heart,  the  worm  that  dietk  not. 

There  is  no  consolation  in  the  thought 

That  from  her  lips  no  chiding  words  were  spoken, 
That  her  great  soul  on  earth  for  nothing  sought, 

Toilincr  for  me  until  its  chords  were  broken. 


'o 


Too  late,  the  knowledge  of  that  deep  devotion ! 

Too  late,  belief  of  w^hat  I  should  have  done  ! 
Chained  to  my  fate,  to  sufl'cr  the  corrosion 

Of  my  worn  heart  until  life's  sands  are  run. 


284:  FANNY    r,    LAUGHTON. 

— — V 

Why  should  I  weep  ?  why  raise  the  voice  of  wailing  ? 

Why  name  the  pangs  that  keep  me  on  the  rack  ? 
Or  prayers  or  tears  alike  were  unavailing, 

She  has  gone  hence  !  I  cannot  call  her  back. 

And  I  alone  must  wander  here  forsaken  — 
In  crowded  street  or  in  secluded  spot, 

From  that  sad  dream,  oh  never  more  to  waken 
Or  cease  to  feel  the  worm  that  dieth  not. 


FANNY   PARKER   LAUGHTON. 

Tins  gifted  young  lady  is  the  only  daughter  of  Dr.  Sumner 
Laughtou,  and  Avas  bom  in  the  village  of  Orouo,  on  the  fifteenth  of 
January,  1836.  For  several  years  her  parents  have  resided  i«  Ban- 
gor. At  an  early  age  she  gave  endence  of  great  native  talent,  and 
Avhen  only  ten  years  of  age  wrote  very  creditable  verses.  She  has 
contributed  a  number  of  j^oems  of  a  high  character  to  the  *  Eastern 
Mail,'  Waterville,  and  the  '  Daily  !Merciu-y,'  Bangor,  mider  the  signa- 
tui'e  of  Inez. 


CASTLES   IN   THE   FIRE. 

AxoxE  in  my  room  one  wintry  night, 

When  the  world  without  was  dark  and  cold, 
I  gazed  in  the  glowing  coals,  whose  light 

Flitted  over  the  walls  like  rays  of  gold  ; 
And  I  saw  a  castle  glittering  bright, 

And  a  shining  banner,  with  many  a  fold, 
Waved  over  the  battlement's  gilded  height, 

And  gay  forms  bent  from  the  turrets  old. 


GEORGE    W.    SNOW.  285 


I  looked  again,  'twas  changed  ;  and  where 

Were  the  gardens  bright  with  the  proud  and  gay  ? 
A  dim  old  church  was  the  castle  fair. 

And  the  knights  were  mouldering  tombstones  grey. 
But  the  banner  waved  on  the  lonely  air, 

Slowly  it  waved  ere  it  sunk  to  decay, 
And  in  burning  lines  it  was  written  there, 

'  Thus  do  the  beautiful  fade  away  ! ' 

And  still  I  gazed,  —  it  was  changed  once  more  ; 

A  bright  lyre  twined  with  a  laurel  wreath. 
Seemed  on  the  listening  air  to  pour, 

With  a  music  tone  its  mystic  breath  ; 
The  shadows  gathered  the  hearthstone  o'er. 

But  the  golden  harpstrings  seemed  to  breathe, 
As  the  firelight  danced  dimly  on  the  floor, 

'  'Tis  Thought  alone  that  may  conquer  Death  ! ' 


GEORGE   W.   SNOW. 

Geokge  "W.  Snow,  Esq.,  was  born  in  the  city  of  Bangor,  on 
the  thirteenth  of  May,  1809.  He  has  written  much,  but  little  of 
wliich,  however,  has  been  published,  owing  to  its  adaptation  to  cele- 
brations, anniversaries  and  the  Uke  occasions. 


THE  TEMPEST  DRIVEN. 

Adown  the  gulf,  adown  the  gulf 
The  trembling  vessel  flies  ! 

No  shore  or  welcome  haven  near 
To  glad  the  seaman's  eyes. 


286  GEORGE    W.    SNOW. 

Adown  the  gulf,   adown  the  gulf 
She  speeds  her  fearful  way  ; 

The  storm  is  dark  around  her  track  — 
No  star  doth  lend  its  ray. 

The  billows  dash  with  threat'ning  roar, 
As  hounds  that  scent  their  prey, 

Yet  swiftly,  wildly  speeds  she  o'er 
The  flashing  waves  away  ! 

But  now  no  more  adown  the  gulf 
'J'he  lonoly  bark  is  driven,  — 

Before  the  veering  storm  she  reels — 
Her  only  sail  is  riven. 

Across  the  gulf,  across  the  gulf! 

Amid  the  deepening  storm. 
From  wave  to  wave  she  scuds  away 

Like  some  sea-monster's  form. 

Away !  she  may  not  linger  there, 
For  on  her  gleaming  path, 

Like  wolves  that  chase  the  flying  deer. 
The  billows  foam  in  wrath. 

But  now  away  beyond  the  gulf 

She  finds  a  calmer  sea. 
And  clear  and  bright  comes  forth  the  sun. 

From  tempest-clouds  set  free. 

'Tis  thus  the  spirit,  by  the  strife 
Of  Death  relentless  driven, 

Finds,  far  beyond  the  storms  of  Life, 
A  calm  repose  in  Heaven. 


HANNAH    E.    BRADBURY.  287 


HANNAH   E.   BRADBURY. 

IVIiss  Bradbury,  kno^\Tl  throughout  New  England  as  H.  E.  B., 
the  authoress  of  so  many  charming  little  stories  and  poems  which 
bear  these  initials,  is  the  daughter  of  Benjamin  B.  Bradbury,  of  Ban- 
o-or.  She  was  born  in  Chester-sdllc,  but  has  resided  in  Bangor  for 
some  years. 


THE   COVERED   BRIDGE. 

The  grave  is  but  a  covered  bridge, 

Leading  from  light  to  light,  through  a  brief  darkness. 

H.  W.  Longfellow. 

Only  a  covered  bridge  !  yet  from  its  brink 

My  spirit  turns  in  fear ; 
Trembling  and  shuddering  from  its  gloom  I  shrink, 

The  portals  seem  so  drear. 

A  covered  bridge,  leading  from  light  to  light, 

The  darkness  brief,  they  say ; 
Yet  who  shall  guide  me  through  the  starless  night 

That  darkly  shrouds  the  way  ? 

Each  pain  is  softened  now  by  mother's  hand, 

And  pillowed  on  her  breast 
I  catch  bright  glimpses  of  the  spirit-land, 

Where  wearied  souls  may  rest. 

My  Father's  hand  now  smoothes  each  ruffled  wave 

Of  life's  unquiet  sea  ; 
Oh,  gladly  Avould  I  tread  the  darksome  grave, 

Leaning,  my  Sire,  on  thee. 


288  SARAH    W.    SPAULDING. 

But  I  must  walk  this  covered  bridge  alone, 

Passing  from  light  to  light 
Without  the  kindly  greeting  of  a  friendly  tone 

Breaking  the  hush  of  night. 

No  !  not  alone  —  our  blessed  Christ  hath  pass'd 

Through  death's  dark  gloom, 
A  holy  radiance  hath  his  presence  cast 

Around  the  iinwelcome  tomb. 

And  when  the  light  of  earth  grows  dim  and  pale, 

I'll  banish  every  fear  ; 
For  though  the  kindness  of  my  friends  shall  fail, 
God's  angels  will  be  near. 

God's  angels  will  be  near,  through  the  brief  night 

Which  shadows  for  an  hour 
The  bridge  o'er  which  I  pass,  from  light  to  light. 

Where  death  hath  no  more  power. 


SARAH   WARREN  SPAULDING. 

This  young  lady  was  bom  in  the  to>vn  of  Norridgewock,  on  the 
sixteenth  day  of  August,  1834.     She  now  resides  at  Bangor. 


THE   STORM  AND   THE  RAINBOW, 

Did  the  angels  hang  it  out,  mother. 

The  glorious  bow  I  see  ? 
Have  the  spirits  such  a  banner 

As  now  is  shown  to  me  ? 


SARAH   W.    SPAULDING.  289 

It  loas  reached  down  from  Heaven, 

Dear  mother,  I  cannot  doubt, 
_  So  tell  your  own  dear  Willie  — 
Did  the  angels  hang  it  out  ? 

The  rain  fell  down  in  torrents  — 

The  clouds  were  black  as  night  — 
But  soon  the  armies  of  the  storm 

"Were  beat  and  put  to  flight. 
They  w-ere  vanquished  by  the  angels, 

And  when  they  saw  their  rout, 
There  came  the  flag  of  Victory  — 

Did  the  angels  hang  it  out? 

I  have  heard  of  wars  in  heaven  — 

Now  I  knoio  that  they  have  fought  — 
I  saw  the  flashing  of  their  spears, 

And  their  glances  —  did  I  not  ? 
Their  chariots  rolled  thro'  heaven, 

And  I  heard  the  demons  shout  — 
And  then  I  saw  the  flag  of  peace  — 

Did  the  angels  hang  it  out  ? 

'Tis  the  bow  of  promise,  mother  — 

I  know  by  God  'twas  given, 
Emblem  of  peace  and  harmony 

Between  mankind  and  heaven  ! 
And  when  the  storm-cloud  passed  away 

With  the  last  thunder  shout, 
And  this  bright  bow  appeared  in  heaven  — 

Did  the  angels  hang  it  out? 


25 


290  CHARLES    r.    ILSLEY. 


CHARLES   P.  ILSLEY. 


This  jrontlcman  is  a  native  of  Portland,  where  he  vas  born  in 
1806.  He  was  for  several  years  connected  with  the  '  Portland  Tran- 
script,' and  at  the  present  time  is  associated  with  E.  P.  Weston  as 
assistant  editor  of  the  '  Eclectic' 


'OH,   THIS   IS   NOT  MY  HOME!' 

Oh,  this  is  not  my  hopie  — 

I  miss  the  glorious  sea, 
Its  white  and  sparkling  foam. 

And  lofty  melody. 

All  things  seem  strange  to  me  — 

I  miss  the  rocky  shore. 
Where  broke  so  sullenly 

The  waves  with  deaf 'ning  roar : 

The  sands  that  shone  like  gold 
Beneath  the  blazing  sun, 

O'er  which  the  waters  roU'd, 
Soft  chanting  as  they  run  : 

And  oh,  the  glorious  sight ! 
Ships  moving  to  and  fro, 
Like  birds  upon  their  flight, 
So  silently  they  go  ! 


HANNAH    A.    MOORE.  291 

I  climb  the  mountain's  height, 

And  sadly  gaze  around, 
No  waters  meet  my  sight, 

I  hear  no  rushing  sound. 

Oh,  would  I  were  at  home. 

Beside  the  glorious  sea. 
To  bathe  within  its  foam 

And  list  its  melody  ! 


^  *  » 


HANNAH   AUGUSTA  MOORE. 

This  young  lady  was  born  in  the  town  of  Wiscasset,  Lincoln 
Comity,  but  has  resided  for  several  years  m  Brookljn,  N.  Y.  Some 
of  her  poems  have  attracted  the  attention  of  several  prominent  Hte- 
rary  men. 


THE   SPIRIT   OF   SONG. 

Desire  it  not,  that  fotal  boon  of  sadness, 

Young  Dreamer,  sailing  o'er  life's  summer  sea, 

'Tis  born  of  grief,  in  hearts  whose  all  of  gladness 
Has  died  'mid  throes  of  mortal  agony. 

Desire  it  not;  only  where  joy  is  dying, 
In  the  dark  caverns  of  the  soul  it  dwells, 

Its  strength  is  drawn  from  tears,  and  groans  and  sighing. 
From  bleeding  hearts  the  mystic  music  wells. 


292  HANNAH    A.    MOORE. 


Yes,  thence  it  wells,  like  springs  of  living  water, 
Or  like  the  tide  that  rushes  forth  amain 

From  severed  veins,  on  the  red  fields  of  slaughter, 
Where  heaps  on  heaps,  are  piled  the  battle's  slain. 

Its  stirring  numbers  roll  with  mightiest  power. 
Where  deepest,  darkest  floods  of  anguish  sweep: 

Oh,  doubt  me  not,  it  is  a  mournful  dower, 
Bestowed  on  those  whose  portion  is  to  weep. 

'Tis  ever  thus  ;   the  grape  yields  not  its  treasure, 
Save  as  the  life  from  out  its  heart  is  press'd ; 

And  agony,  that  knows  not  stint  nor  measure, 
Wrings  out  sweet  music  from  the  human  breast. 

Ah,  glances  bright,  and  mirth  and  joyous  singing, 
Smiles,  and  light  footsteps  cheat  the  ear  and  eye, 

While  over  all,  Avithin,  despair  is  flinging 
Its  blight-like  mist  descending  heavily. 

Then  ask  it  not,  that  fatal  boon  of  sadness. 
Young  Dreamer,  sailing  o'er  life's  summer  sea, 

For  first  must  fade  thy  smiles  of  heartfelt  gladness. 
And  tears  must  quench  thy  joyful  spirit's  glee. 


LEWIS   DELA. 

This  humorous  poet  is  a  native  of  Portland,  where  he  is  now 
engaged  in  the  practice  of  Law. 


LAW  vs.   SAW. 

Sitting  in  his  office  was  a  lawyer 
Standing  in  the  street  a  sawyer  ; 
On  the  lawyer's  anxious  face 
You  could  read  a  knotty  case, 

Needing  law  ; 
While  the  sa\vyer,  gaunt  and  grim, 
On  a  rough  and  knotty  limb 

Ran  his  saw. 

Now  the  saw-horse  seemed  to  me 
Like  a  double  X  in  fee, 

And  the  saw% 
Whichever  way  'twas  thrust, 
Must  be  followed  by  the  dust, 

Like  the  law. 

And  the  law  upon  the  track, 
Like  the  client  on  the  rack, 

Playing  its  part ; 
As  the  tempered  teeth  of  steel 
Made  a  wound  that  would  not  heal 

Through  the  heart. 


294:  LEWIS    DELA. 


And  cacli  severed  stick  that  fell, 
In  its  falling  seemed  to  tell 

All  too  plain, 
Of  tlic  many  severed  ties 
,  That  in  law  suits  will  arise, 
Bringing  pain. 

Then  methought  the  sturdy  paAV, 
That  was  using  axe  and  saw 

On  the  wood, 
Had  a  yielding  mine  of  wealth 
With  his  honest  toil  and  health, 

Doing  good. 

If  the  chips  that  strewed  the  ground, 
By  some  stricken  widow  found 

In  her  need, 
Should  by  light  and  warmth  impart 
Blessings  to  her  aged  heart  — 

Happy  deed ! 

This  conclusion  then  I  draw. 
That  no  exercise  of  jaw, 
Twisting  India  rubber  law, 

Is  as  good, 
As  the  exercise  of  paw. 

Sawing  wood. 


SARAH    HAYFORD.  295 


SARAH   HAYFORD. 

ISIiss  Hayfokd  is  the  adopted  daughter  of  Arvida  Hayford, 
Esq.,  of  Bangor,  where  she  now  resides.  The  folloAraig  httle  gem 
has  been  extensively  circulated,  under  the  title  of  '  Sweet  Florence,' 
and  comes  to  us  in  '  Lelia's  Offering.' 


THE   SLEEPING  BABE. 

I  SAT  beside  a  sleeping  babe, 

And  watched  its  gentle  rest, 
And  felt  the  balmy  breath  that  came 

From  'neath  the  quiet  breast : 
I  saw  the  smile  of  innocence, 

That  wreathed  the  sunny  brow, 
And  felt  'twould  never  wear  a  smile 

Of  purer  love  than  now. 

There  is  a  sweet,  a  heavenly  charm 

Around  the  infant  thrown, 
A  mild  and  gentle  purity. 

In  after  years  unknown. 
No  wonder  to  my  partial  eye 

This  darling  of  my  heart, 
Of  gentle  loveliness  should  seem 

To  bear  a  larger  part. 


296  SARAH    HAYFORD. 


'Twas  thus  I  knelt  beside  the  couch, 

By  little  Florence  graced, 
And  softly  kissed  the  snowy  neck 

Her  dimpled  hands  embraced. 
The  rose-tint  softly  flushed  her  cheek, 

Her  lips  were  cherry  red, 
And  innocence  and  love  combined 

O'er  every  feature  spread. 

And  as  I  gazed,  methought  a  smile 

Played  o'er  the  features  fair, 
Which  spoke  a  spirit,  bright  and  pure, 

And  dreams,  all  free  from  care  ; 
It  told  me,  too,  of  angel  guards 

To  shield  the  lovely  guest. 
As  through  the  years  of  childhood  bright. 

The  little  one  progress'd. 


BACCHANALIAN  SONG, 


BT   MELVILLE  WESTON  FULLER. 


Gaily  the  ■wine  in  our  goblets  is  gleaming, 
Bright  on  its  surface  the  foam  bubbles  swim. 

So  the  smiles  of  our  joy  from  each  countenance  beaming, 
Are  the  bubbles  that  dance  on  the  cup  of  life's  brim. 

Oh,  what  are  life's  hopes  and  its  high  aspirations, 
But  wishes  for  things  that  are  not  what  they  seem? 

Away  to  the  shades  with  such  dull  contemplations, 
Utopian  visions  where  all  is  a  dream  — 

The  flag  at  our  mast-head  is  pleasure's  own  banner, 
And  to  the  breeze  boldly  its  broad  folds  we  fling, 

While  each  stout-hearted  sailor  will  raise  the  hossanua 
To  ivy-crowned  Bacchus,  our  joUy-souled  king. 

Then  fill  up  your  glasses,  lads,  fill  up  your  glasses, 
With  frolicksome  pleasure  the  moments  employ, 

Since  life  is  a  si)an,  each  bright  hour  it  passes. 
When  siezed  on  its  flight,  it  is  ours  to  enjoy. 


FANNY    P.    LAUGHTON.  299 


PANSIES. 

BT  MISS  FANNI  PARKER  LAUGHTON. 

There  is  pansies,  —  that's  for  thoughts. 

Summer  blossoms,  painted 

Like  the  evening  skies, 
In  your  blended  gold  and  purple, 

Something  holy  lies. 

Blossoming  so  meekly 

On  this  world  of  ours. 
Ye  are  full  of  deeper  beauty  — 

Ye  are  more  than  flowers. 

Sweet  and  tender  mem'ries 

Of  our  '  long  ago,' 
In  the  purple  pansies  folded. 

Radiantly  glow. 

Visions  of  still  meadows 

Where  the  sunshine  slept. 
And  of  dreamy  woods,  where  twilight 

Endless  watches  kept ;  — 


Hamlet. 


300  FANNY    P.    LAUGHTON. 

Of  the  paths  familiar 

To  our  childish  feet, 
And  of  brooks  whose  warbling  voices 

Were  forever  sweet. 

Visions  of  the  summers 

Whose  warm  bloom  is  o'er, 

And  of  hearts,  whose  bloom  was  warmer,  ■ 
With  us  now  no  more. 

Happy  hearts  that  bounded 

Without  thought  or  care, 
Now  beneath  the  sod,  —  with  only 

Pansies  planted  there. 

Blossoming  so  meekly, 

Little  purple  flowers, 
Ye  are  full  of  brighter  visions, 

Than  these  faded  hours  ! 

Full  of  dreams  reflecting 
More  than  rainbow  dyes,  — 

Full  of  golden  hopes  for  reaching 
Into  Paradise ! 

0,  there's  not  a  single  beauty 

In  this  life  of  ours. 
Which  is  not  most  sweetly  uttered 

By  the  simplest  flowers ! 


B.    A.    G.    FULLER.  301 


THE   FORSAKEN   ARBOR. 

[In  Memoriam] 

BT  BENJAMIN  A.   G.   FULLER. 

Into  my  garden  in  the  Summer  hours 

A  little  bird  with  golden  plumage  flew, 
And  sported  joyously  amid  the  flowers 

Which  clust'ring  there,  in  fragrant  beauty  grew. 
Her  soft  and  gentle  notes,  so  blithe  and  gay,  — 

Like  richest  music  from  the  spirit  land,  — 
Floated  around  me  all  the  live  long  day 

And  cheered  the  labors  of  my  head  and  hand. 

Oft  did  I  watch  her  as  on  gladsome  wing 

She  fluttered  near  as  if  my  love  to  share, 
And  by  her  happy,  buoyant  song  to  bring 

Some  sweet  relief  to  all  my  toil  and  care. 
I  watched  her,  as  when  twilight  shades  drew  nigh 

With  folded  plumes  she  sought  her  downy  nest, 
And  safe  embowered,  drooped  her  head  and  eye, 

And  sank  in  trustful  confidence  to  rest. 

Day  after  day,  as  morn's  first  radiant  beams 

Their  pure  eff'ulgence  o'er  creation  shed, 
This  little  warbler  'roused  me  from  my  dreams. 

And  trilled  her  liquid  music  o'er  my  bed. 
Daily  she  came,  —  and  from  my  hand  she  took 

With  thankfulness  her  little  store  of  food. 
The  while  I  smoothed  her  plumage  ;  —  and  her  look 

Shew  forth  a  sweet  return  of  gratitude. 
26 


303  B.    A.    G.    FULLER. 


She  won  my  purest  love,  —  my  gentlest  care. 

Her  warblings  all  my  fond  affections  stirred  ; 
She  nestled  in  my  breast  its  warmth  to  share  :  — 

So  tenderly  I  loved  my 'darling  bird. — 
I  reared  an  arbor  where  her  nest  was  made, 

And  nursed  the  beauteous  flowers  which  'round  it  grew, 
And  sought  to  shield  her  by  the  leafy  shade 

From  noontide  heat,  or  evenings  chilly  dew. 

And  Avhen  the  yellow  leaves  forsook  the  trees, 

And  flowers  faded  from  the  cheerless  earth, 
I  wrapped  her  softly  from  the  snowy  breeze, 

And  gently  warmed  her  at  the  household  hearth. 
Four  times  glad  Spring  recalled  to  life  again 

Earth's  buried  glories,  hidden  long  from  sight, 
Hailed  by  my  songstress,  who,  in  rapturous  strain, 

And  notes  exultant  told  her  new  delight. 

One  mom,  ere  Summer's  latest  rose  had  blown, 

With  icy  breath  the  hoar-frost  filled  the  air ; 
I  missed  my  little  one's  familiar  tone, 

And  sought  her  sheltered  nest  ;  —  she  was  not  there  ! 
Too  frail  the  rude  Autumnal  blast  to  meet. 

Or  lift  her  pinions  'gainst  the  wintry  storm, 
This  first  chill  warning  bade  her  find  retreat  • 

Ere  rougher  winds  should  toss  her  fragile  form. 

And  gently,  suddenly  she  took  her  flight 

To  sunnier  climes,  and  skies  more  mild  and  fair, 
Where  softer  zephyrs  breathe,  and  frosts  ne'er  blight, 

And  fragrant  flowers  bloom  eternal  there. 
Sweet  bird  !  how  desolate  thy  empty  nest ! 

How  sad  my  garden  of  thy  song  bereft ! 
But  brighter  fields  are  by  thy  presence  blest. 

And  dearest  memories  unto  one  are  left. 


WILLIAM    CUTTER.  303 


THE  INDIAN   AT   BAY. 

BY  WILLIAM    CUTTER. 

'  Ye  call  us  savage  —  O,  be  just! 

Our  outraged  feelings  scan; 
A  voice  conies  forth,  'tis  from  the  dust  — 
The  savage  was  a  man  1 ' 

I  STAND  wpon  the  utmost  verge 

Of  Freedom's  last  retreat, 
And  feel  the  everlasting  surge 

Still  breaking  at  my  feet  — 
The  surge  of  pale-faced  men  that  come 

From  every  distant  stand, 
To  find  a  refuge  and  a  home 

In  Freedom's  chosen  land. 

'Twas  freedom's  land  in  ages  past, 

Where,  subject  but  to  God, 
In  wilderness  and  prairie  vast. 

The  untamed  Indian  trod  ;  — 
Free  as  the  mountain-stream  that  glides 

Meandering  to  the  main,  — 
Free  as  the  mountain-storm  that  rides 

In  fury  o'er  the  plain. 

'Tis  Freedom's  still,  to  those  who  wear 

Its  Avarrant  in  their  skin, 
Though  all  the  darkest  forms  they  bear 

Of  slavery  within. 


304  WILLIAM    CUTTER. 


'Tis  Freedom's  still  —  but  not  for  us, 
To  whom,  by  deed  from  heaven, 

With  ages  of  unchallenged  use, 
Its  broad  domain  Avas  given. 


O' 


All  men,  of  every  name  and  faith,  . 

As  with  a  right  divine, 
Find  shelter  and  repose  beneath 

Our  fig-tree  and  our  vine. 
But  we,  the  children  of  the  soil, 

Our  mighty  and  our  brave, 
Abandoned  to  a  ruthless  spoil. 

Here  only  find  a  grave. 

From  post  to  post  still  driven  back, 

From  realm  to  realm  pursued, 
We  trace  our  slow  retiring  track 

By  tears,  and  graves,  and  blood  ;  — 
By  wrongs,  which  to  high  heaven  appeal 

With  prayer's  resistles  power. 
Wrongs  which  the  pale-faced  race  shall  feel 

In  heaven's  avenging  hour. 


EDWARD    P.    WESTON.  305 


RHYMES, 

Recited  at  the  Jubilee  Di.iner,  at  Bowdoin   College,  Sept.  3,  1854. 

EZ  EDWARD   P.    WESTON. 
*****  * 

Well,  it  was  pleasant,  as  we  said  before, 
To  be  invited  home  to  dine  once  more. 
But  then,  we  must  confess,  'twas  rather  hard 
To  find  appended  to  our  mother's  card, 
A  postscript  running  thus,  — You'll  please  to  bring 
Your  welcome  with  you,  — just  some  simple  thing 
To  pass  round  at  the  dinner  ;  if  so  be 
There  should  be  lacking  aught  of  jeit  cV  esprit  ! 
I  took  my  Bolmar  down  to  find  the  dish ;  — 
Alas  !  'twas  neither  fruit,  nor  fowl  nor  fish, 
A  jeu  d'  esprit  !     I'm  making  no  pretenses, — 
'Twas  written  so  by  her  amanuensis. 
A  jeu  (T  esprit  !  well  really  my  brothers, 
If  children  were  not  bound  to  mind  their  mothers 
With  such  condition  in  the  note  to  dine. 
The  ''esprit  {spree)  had  all  been  yours,  sans  help  of  mine 
But  come  I  must,  —  for  thus  my  heart  inclin'd  ; 
But  where  alas,  the  jeu  cf  esprit  to  find  ! 
Brought  forty  miles,  'twould  spoil  in  getting  here, 
Sure  as  an  uncorked  bottle  of  small  beer. 
So  —  wise  or  foolish  —  I  concluded  best 
To  let  the  morning  and  the  hour  suggest. 
Well,  —  when  I  reached,  this  morning,  College-place, 
And  caught  a  glimpse  of  Alma  Mater's  face, 
There's  no  belying  it,  I  surely  spied 
2G* 


JOG  EDWARD    P.    WESTON. 

Upon  that  matron's  face  a  look  of  pride  ! 

She  was  not  gazing  on  herself,  be  sure, 

Vain  of  her  beauty,  simpering-demurc  ; 

Nor  —  though  she  might  —  upon  his  manly  charms 

She  woo'd  so  lately  to  her  widowed  arms,  — 

But  on  the  sons  who  crowded  to  her  door; 

And  as  she  gazed  in  pride,  she  prayed  for  more. 

More  sons  to  speak  her  praise  in  all  the  earth, 

And  tell  inquirers  where  they  had  their  birth : 

More  sons  to  Lord-^  it  o'er  some  heritage 

Goodly  as  that  of  her  own  Dartmouth  sage : 

More  NEHEMiAHsf  like  our  scribe  to-day, 

For  our  Jerusalem  to  toil  and  pray  : 

Sons  Keen  in  history  and  in  physic  too. 

With  pen  or  pill  to  put  the  patient  through  : 

More  Howards,  on  the  prisoner's  cause  intent, 

And  in  all  legal  ways  benevolent  : 

More  of  the  Caltin  school,  to  Sxowe  within 

Our  young  divines,  the  mysteries  of  sin  : 

More  Abbotts,  fain  the  cloistered  young  to  guide 

When  learning's  fount  and  faith's  floAV  side  by  side  : 

More  precious  Stones  to  gleam  with  beauty  rare 

In  the  bright  crown  she  prides  herself  to  wear  : 

More  Smyths,  with  brawny  arm  to  forge  them  hot 

And  weld  the  chain  of  mathematic  shot : 

More  Little  men,  in  wealth  or  office  great 

To  spur  the  iron  horse,  —  or  —  legislate  : 

More  Franks,  to  Pierce^  the  serried  hosts  of  war 

That  gather  on  our  borders,  near  or  far  : 

More  VViLLiAM  Pitts,  on  the  high  mission  sent 

To  scout  oppression  in  our  parliament : 

More  fearless  hearts  and  stentor  lungs  to  Hale§ 


ISAAC  m'lellan.  307 

The  day  Avlien  Right  sliall  over  Might  prevail: 
More  East-men  magi  in  their  country's  laws, 
More  SouTHGATEsll  guarding  well  the  church's  cause  : 
More  tasteful  Barnes,  whose  grecian  style  is  meet 
For  palaces  as  well,  or  learning's  seat : 
More  Chandlers,  working  at  their  lawful  wares, 
Bakers  and  Butlers,  with  their  household  cares  : 
A  few  LoNGFELLOWsff  more  to  write  her  name, 
High  on  the  pannels  of  our  country's  fame,  — 
With  '  voices  of  the  night,'  and  words  of  cheer 
To  chain  the  nation's  heart  and  charm  its  ear  : 
More  hlossoms  from  the  fragrant  Hawthorne  hedge, 
Planted  just  yonder  by  the  Blithedale  edge  : 
More  Frentisses;]:!  —  soon  masters  in  the  art. 
By  which  the  tongue  can  thrill  the  human  heart : 
More  Drummond  lights,  with  far  and  flashing  rays 
To  set  the  world  a-gaping  and  a-blaze  : 
More  sons,  in  fine,  each  post  and  sphere  to  grace 
From  humble  toil  to  Presidential  place. 


THE   SHORES   OF   MAINE. 

By  ISAAC  M'LELLAN. 

Far  in  the  sunset's  mellow  glory, 
Far  in  the  daybreak's  pearly  bloom  — 
Fring'd  by  ocean's  foamy  surges, 
Belted  in  by  woods  of  gloom. 
Stretch  thy  soft,  luxuriant  borders. 
Smile  thy  shores,  in  hill  and  plain, 
Flower-enamell'd,  ocean-girdled, 
Green  bright  shores  of  Maine. 


308  ISAAC  m'lellan. 


Rivers  of  surpai^sing  beauty  ' 
From  thy  hemlock  woodlands  flow, — 
Androscoggin  and  Penobscot, 
Saco,  cliill'd  by  northern  snow. 
These  from  many  a  lowly  ravine 
Thick  by  pine-trees  shadow'd  o'er. 
Sparkling  from  their  ice-cold  tributes 
To  the  surges  of  thy  shore. 

Bays  resplendent  as  the  heaven, 
Starr'd  and  gemm'd  by  thousand  isles, 
Gird  thee,  Casco,  with  its  islets, 
Quoddy  with  its  dimpled  smiles  : 
O'er  them  swift  the  fisher's  shallop, 
And  tall  ships  their  Avings  expand, 
While  the  smoke-flag  of  the  steamer, 
Flaunteth  out  its  cloudy  streamer. 
Bound  to  foreign  strand. 

Bright  from  many  a  rocky  headland 
Fring'd  by  sands  that  shine  like  gold, 
Gleams  the  light-house  white  and  lonely, 
Grim  as  some  barronial  hold. 
Bright  by  many  an  ocean  valley 
Shaded  hut  and  village  shine  ; 
Boof  and  steeple,  weather-beaten, 
Stain'd  by  ocean's  breath  of  brine. 


|ipcitHi\ 


NOTES. 


Tage  7— («■).  These  extracts  are  from  Lonp;fellow's  '  Dramatic  Poem,'  enti- 
tled tlie  '  Spanish  Student,'  wliich,  in  many  resiiects,  is  the  finest  poem  lie 
lias  written.  It  is  ol'a  diilercnt  character  from  Evangeline,  and  shows  that  tiie 
genius  of  its  author  is  versatile  and  brilliant.  The  passages  here  quoated,  are 
some  of  the  most  beautiful  which  it  contains.  Without  this  poem  no  library  is 
complete. 

Page  10 — 1st  line»-read  mystery  tor  history. 
"     15  —  4th  verse     "      acliieving  "  aching. 
''     16  —  2d        "         ''      U'hate''er    "  whatever. 
''    18  — 2d       "        "     Moldau's    "  Moldar's. 

Since  our  work  has  been  in  press,  and  after  the  sketch  of  Mr.  Willis  was 
printed,  we  learned  that  be  was  not  so  dangerously  ill  as  supposed,  although 
quite  feeble. 

Page  44 — (b).  In  the  Scamander,  —  before  contending  for  the  prize  of 
beauty  on  Mount  Ida.    Its  head  waters  fill  a  beautiful  tank  near  the  falls  of  Troy. 

Page  33  —  (c).  Parrhasius,  a  painter  of  Athens,  from  among  those  Olyhthian 
captives  Philip  of  Macedon  brought  home  to  sell,  bought  one  very  old  man;  and 
when  he  had  him  at  his  house,  put  him  to  death  with  extreme  torture  and  tor- 
ment, the  better,  by  his  example,  to  express  the  pains  and  passions  of  his  Prome- 
theus, whom  he  was  then  about  to  paint.—  Burto.n's  Anatomy  of  Melancholt. 

Page  54  —  (d).  This  poem  was  prepared  for  the  press  on  the  day  succeeding 
Mr.  Thatcher's  death,  which  explains  the  opening  lines. 

Page  59  —  (e).  One  prisoner  I  saw,  who  had  been  imprisoned  from  his  youth, 
and  was  said  to  be  occasionally  insane  in  consequence.  lie  enjoyed  no  com- 
panionship —  the  keeper  said — but  that  of  a  beautiful  tamed  bird.  Of  what 
name  or  clime  it  was,  I  know  not  —  only  that  ha  called  it  fondly  his  rfot'c,  and 
seem''d  never  happy  but  when  it  sang  to  him.  —  M.  S.  of  a  Tour  through  France. 

Page  80—  (■/).  This  poem  was  written  on  the  shore  of  Lake  Erie,  during  Mr. 
Lovejoy's  journey  West,  and  soon  after  he  had  recovered  from  a  severe  illness. 
It  undoubtedly  refers  to  himself. 


NOTES.  311 


Page  85  — (§■).  We  intended  giving  a  longer  sketch,  and  a  more  definate 
one,  botli  of  Mrs.  Smitli  and  her  liu>hand,  but  liave  received  no  reply  to  our 
letters.  Within  a  short  time  we  have  learned  that  she  was  born  iu  Cumberland, 
instead  of  I'ortlaud. 

rage  103  — (/i).  We  have  occasionally  referred  to  Dr.  Griswold's  work  — 
'The  Poets  and  Poetry  of  America,'  for  some  few  dates  and  facts,  but  since 
using  them,  find  that  they  are  lionibhj  incorrect,  and  therefore  beg  our  readers 
to  excuse  us  for  stealing  from  so  poor  a  source. 

Page  107  — 2nd  verse,  read  spurning  for  sparing. 
"     108  — 3rd      "        "     aye  "     age. 

Page  113  — (0  Since  his  death,  Mr.  Mellen  has  been  accused  of  plaguerizing 
this  poem  from  one  by  Tennyson,  of  a  similar  character.  The  only  line  that  is 
at  all  similar  to  Tennyson's,  is  the  one  here  marked.  The  accusation  is  entirely 
lalse. 

Page  128  —  (j).  The  fifth  of  May  came  amid  wind  and  rain.  Napoleon's 
passing  spirit  was  deliriously  engaged  in  a  strife  more  terrible  than  the  elements 
around.  The  words  tete  rf'  armee,  (liead  of  the  army,)  the  last  words  which 
escaped  from  his  lips,  intimated  that  his  thoughts  were  watching  the  current  of  a 
heavy  fight.  About  eleven  minutes  before  six  in  the  evening.  Napoleon  expired. 
—  Scott's  Life  of  Napoleon.  ^ 

Page  134.  —  In  4th  line,  read  Blachicood^s  for  Blackstont's. 

A  large  portion  of  this  sketch  was  accidentally  ommitted,  and  discovered 
too  late  to  be  remedied.  The  selection  of  poems  is  by  no  means  a  sample  of  the 
ability  of  Mr.  Neal,  who  is  undoubtedly,  one  of  the  most  gifted  and  remarkable 
men  who  have  figured  in  the  literature  of  our  country.  Our  proper  selections 
not  arriving  at  the  time  appointed  we  were  obliged  to  use  whatever  we  could  find 
of  his  in  print. 

Page  135 — (t).  This  is  an  extract  from  Mr.  Neal's  longest  poem,  entitled 
'  The  Battle  of  Niagara,' and  is  taken  from  that  portion  of  it  which  brings  the 
care  worn  soldier  home  to  his  wife  and  children.  The  painter's  art  would 
fail,  should  he  attempt  to  excel  this  beautiful  and  life-like  picture  of  the  poet's 
imagination. 

Page  139  —  1st  verse,  last  line,  comma  for  period. 

"  144  —  2nd  line,  read,  and  wrote  several  dramas,  which  were,  §'0. 

"  "    —  10th  »        "    President  Taylor,  for  Fillmore. 

'•  "   —  22rd"        "     Revolution  ioY  Renovation. 

"  152  —  2nd  verse  ''     ividest  ior  wildest. 

"  "   — 3rd    "        "    Are  ever  for  Have  eUr  been. 

ic  K    —   ct     ic       u     The  soonest  for  And  the  soonest. 

*'  161  —  4th  verse,  read  came  for  come. 

"  1G4 —  (k).  In  the  year  1821,  a  Mrs.  Blake  perished  in  a  snow  storm  in 
the  night  time,  while  travelling  over  a  spur  of  the  Green  Mountains,  in  Vermont. 
She  had  an  infant,  which  was  found  alive  in  the  morning  wrapped  in  the 
mother's  clothing. 


324  NOTES. 


Pa;»e  170  —  last  verse,  read  Mm  for  thee. 

"     177  — 3rd  verse,  read  balcony  for  bacony. 
"      "        '•       "        "    fight  foT  light. 

"     210  —  16th  line,  read  Jid  for  done. 

"       "        19tli    "       "    associate  for  assistant. 

"  213  —  10th    "       "    the  immortal  i'or  i)7iinortal. 

"        "  — last  line,  read  to  immortality  for  of  immortality. 

"  216  —  14th  line,  read  this  for  the. 

"  "  —16th    "        "   breathe  for  breath. 

"     217  —  last  verse,  read  immortally  for  immortality. 

"      215— (H-    Mrs.  Sarah  Emmons  Gumming,  a  native  of  Portland,  and 
wife  of  Rev.  Hooper  Gumming,  of  Newark,  N.  J. 

Page  216  — (wi).  She  had  been  married  but  six  weeks  and  was^then  on  a 
bridal  tour. 

(«)•  Since  this  event,  in  June,  1812,  a  green  cedar  tree  has  sprung  up  from 
the  very  spot  over  which  she  fell,  wliile  gazing  into  the  abyss  below,  and  the 
poet  has  Iiaj^ijily  wrelRhed  it  into  his  poem,  as  a  monument  planted  of  God. 

The  closing  portion  of  thii  poem,  we  regret  to  say,  was  accidentally  omitted, 
and  is  here  inserted. 

But  my  mother's  voice, 
From  the  full  depths  of  uuforgotten  love, 
Still  calleth  to  thee  in  the  spirit  land, 
Her  voice  —  her  heart  —  in  mine! 

And  now  to  thee. 
Spirit  of  heaven  sent  forth  to  minister, 
And  thee  —  my  mother —  dwelling  even  now 
By  prayer  and  faith,  just  on  the  verge  of  heaven, 
Unto  the  living  and  the  dead,  I  give 
These  waiting  moments  and  this  sorrowing  song! 

Page  303  — *  Lord,  D.D.,  President  of  Dartmouth  College.  Graduated  in  1809. 
"  tNehemiah  Cleveland,  one  of  the  Orators  of  the  day.  Grad.  in  1813. 
"  t  President  Pierce,  graduated  in  1824. 

"  5  John  P.  Hale,  graduated  in  1827. 

"  II  Bishop  Southgate,  graduated  in  1832. 

"         tt  Prof.  Longfellow,  graduated  in  1825. 

"  tt  Sargent  S.  Prentiss,  graduated  in  1826,  and  his  brother,  George 

L.  Prentiss,  graduated  in  1835. 


'  U     Uv^UDO 


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